Uncle Alan and then just Alan has been the same, intelligent, jolly, reliable, strong-minded, fun, often a bit naughty and completely normal person from the the moment we met, which was quite soon after I was born in the late 1950’s. I don’t remember that particular meeting and his presence became gradually part of my life. We lived in South America and so my recollections of him were on holidays when we came to England and in his letters and cards.
He used to pick us up from Heathrow and often we’d stay at Nanna’s house at the starts and ends of holidays before taking the train to Scotland where I went to school.
            Those few days between terms were spent doing things with Alan and subsequently Ann. These were some of the most joyful times I remember from childhood where we would pile into the Morris Minor (and later the Lada) and go places like Shooter’s Hill and roll down the hill and twirl till we were sick. Meals would be in pubs sometimes and I loved it when the beer wasn’t up to scratch as Alan would then nick the glass: I thought that was really cool and funny.
            I remember I got to sleep in his room at Nanna’s house in the comfiest bed ever: I’m not really sure where he went. A room lined with books and piles papers. You couldn’t get under the bed for books ‘n paper. Often I would spend hours rummaging through the books and mags – some I understood but many were mathematical and completely beyond me and so I have always been impressed with his cleverness.
            He has always been extra-kind and a marvellously great fun uncle, who had the ability to just listen, and I will miss his quirky humour and infectious laugh enormously but he will be in my memory forever.