Its taken some time to sort out my grandfathers autobiography, which he wrote in the early seventies, not long before his death. Its a collection of memories which he wrote by hand - I remember him sitting in his wheelchair in the living room of his bungalow in Seaton sluice, Northumberland, filling an excercise book with notes.
Not long after he finished, his daughter, Joan, typed up the notes, but I never saw the finished work, and it was only when I got the parcel a few weeks ago that I read them for the first time.
I promised to publish the memoirs here, but then had a sort of block, as it all seemed too grim, he was a butcher after all, and he spent his life killing things.
I had a moment of madness when I thought about rewriting them, giving a cottagey, cosy glow to his life, and taking away the bitterness by adding a soft focus, sepia tint to the words.
But it would not be true, so I've simply retyped them, and added photos to the text.
You can read his story here.