Life is a fatal disease

Three days ago Holger, the very nice chap that my mother was married to ca 1989-1999 (can't remember when they divorced) died. He was what you usually call a colourful character, fond of food and drink, loud, old-fashioned, rigidly honest, friendly, welcoming, a bit naive, extremely industrious and active, always starting up a new club or putting on an amateur musical or something. (He loved show business, big band jazz, and dancing.)

He had been hospitalized for a couple of years (some sort of cross between mild Alzheimer's and old-age depression), slowly making him apathetic and unable to take care of himself, so I didn't lose him yesterday, I gradually lost him over the last five years or so. He was 79. He had a good life, I think, up until the last three or so years. He certainly lived it to the full. I will miss him. (No, before you ask, he wasn't my father. My mother met him when she was 44 and he was 61. I had moved out by then.)

The next time I have a Christmas glass of port, I will drink to you, Holger!