Uncle Martin died this week. 98. On the upside…another funeral to write about in my column!

Lucky you. It usually sends the Gazette circulation soaring when it is known that Roberts is once again writing about death.

I’m waiting for that call from the editor.

“Mr Roberts, is it really necessary for you write about death and funerals quite so often? Something a little lighter maybe? Once in a while?”

I noticed in the obituary column last week (yes, I do read it every week) that people seem to die either one of just two ways.

It’s always either “peacefully” or “suddenly”.

Always one or the other.

How about together?

Perhaps if you were run over by a giant lorry carrying camomile tea you could lay claim to dying peacefully AND suddenly.

I’ve never seen that listed yet.

I myself would quite like to be mown down by a massive lorry carrying low fat yoghurt.

I think of this as violent death but with a healthy option.

I pretty nearly croaked this week after attempting to beat my personal best (or PB as we athlete’s refer to it) at the Park Run. 24 mins 40 secs since you ask.

I took this running thing up with the idea that some gentle exercise would push back my date of exit from the Earth.

But I’m rapidly concluding that the vigorous pounding up the hill in Castle Park is putting me in mortal danger of an early bath. As it’s the one absolute certainty once you’re born there’s an argument for getting on with it. None of us can escape.

As Shakespeare puts it: “Golden lads and girls all must, As chimney sweepers come to dust.”

I prefer the Uncle Martin approach. He died peacefully, sitting in his chair after breakfast. 98 and out.

Two shy of his century.

Not a bad knock.