On Monday my grandfather, the unparalleled Don Harron, would have been 92.


My memories, in Canada’s newspaper of record:


Miss him all the time. Still, he made it to 90, which is damned good.

Every day I am happy to know that he would have loved nothing more than to know I am living in his favourite city in the world, doing what I was always supposed to do.

Bonus: The fact that the grave of William Blake – whom he wrote a book about – is a ten minute walk from my house, and just a stone’s throw from my agency, would have made him pleased as punch.