RIP

David Ronald Holmes, Kt, CMG, CBE, MC

26 Dec 1913-14 June 1981

My dad died 25 years ago today and I miss him.

Busy day:

My Greek lesson and taking in Tassia's moussaka for the lads to lunch on

Then out to hunt down some gizmo for the printer

Then some guests from Wales up to dinner

And so the list goes on - how time flies in Paradise.

Mum and I fitted in a visit in to his grave and I managed to get thru it without damfool tears welling.

I haven't much to add that I haven't chugged out before in:

Saturday's Child

In Memoriam.

Going thru the albums this afternoon, what do I come across but some rather nice snaps a relaxed Dad and some of his actual knighthood day.

Gosh Mum looked nice; still does.

And who is that fresh-faced elder son next to Patera?

I remember that day as if it was some 30+ years ago: I was publicity manager for Cassell publishers and Nicholas Monsarrat had flown over from Malta for a meeting that included my promotional spiel. It was going to be touch-and-go getting back from Buckingham Palace in time.

I didn't in fact make it but knew where to find them - in the pub - so I joined Nick et co there. As I walked in, Michael Felgate-Catt said "There's the man - missed your publicity routine but Nick's happy with the typed schedule. How'd it go at the Palace?"

Monsarrat: Hello, old boy - large Chivas on the rocks? Which palace?"

MF-C: "Buck House. Chris's dad got gonged today."

NM: "Oh I say,well done ! This calls for more than the old rotgut ... landlord? Got a bottle or two of Mumms on ice? Jolly good. On my tab, as usual."

And we were away.

George of the Cemetery: One of the great unsung scandals on the isle attaches to George Psailas who single-handedly., 24/7, maintains the beautiful cemetery, unfunded and unaided.

I'm to blame, you're certainly to blame. We're all to blame. I can hardly look him in the eye each time I visit the exquisitely maintained plots.

I shall return to this subject with facts marshalled and suitably honed hrrmphings and bombast.

There will not be Hilary Whitton Paipeti's graceful tutting about *my* finger wags.