It’s been 16 years and I still miss him. I can hear him muttering, “Well, for crying in a bloody bucket.” (It was only picking up the cake for the post-funeral party that we realized he’d been sneakily cursing for all those years. Say it in a UK accent and you’ll hear it.) My son would have loved sitting on his knee and hearing stories about Malawi and meeting leopards in the bush and hunting a wounded lion to protect livestock and all that. (I know I did.)