Attention is love

In many ways, Gran and Gramps could not have been more different. To my young eyes, Gramps was the undisputed hero—an extroverted, charismatic powerhouse who had been a respected amateur actor in his youth. He was the man who held sway as the MC at the annual bowls club, a storyteller who lived for the spotlight and the punchline. He was physically effusive, showering us with praise and affection. As a shy, introverted boy, I idolized him. I wanted to be that eloquent, that funny, and that confident.

In many ways, I took on his mantle. I found myself in school plays, losing myself in roles, and eventually becoming a skilled public speaker—though, unlike Gramps, my "performance" always came with a side of anxiety. I learned from him how to express admiration and how to hold a room with a well-timed story.

Gran, however, was the steady, background presence. She was never the center of attention and far less demonstrative with her affection. But if you got her into a one-on-one conversation, the world shifted.

Gran was an incredible listener. She didn't just hear you; she held what you said. She had a memory like a carefully curated archive; if you mentioned a small detail in passing, months later she would present you with a newspaper clipping perfectly relevant to that thought. Her love wasn't a loud performance; it was a quiet, non-judgmental space.

I’ve realized as I’ve grown older that love, in its purest form, is exactly that: spacious, affirming, and attentive. Attention is love.

While I idolized the "Toucher Tony" version of life when I was young, my appreciation for Gran has grown until she stands as a role model equal to Gramps. She is the bar I set for my own relationships. If I can show a genuine, loving interest in others the way she did, I know I’m offering something truly special.

I was remarkably lucky to have them both. They represent the two halves of my personality: the part of me that wants to tell a great story to a crowd, and the part of me that knows the most important thing I can ever give someone is my undivided, loving attention.

Family stories: The piano hiders

Once upon a time, many years ago, a party was held in a house crowded with teenagers. The game of the night was "Murder in the Dark." The lights were killed, the house was plunged into a predatory blackness, and as the "murderer" began to stalk the corridors, the guests scattered into the shadows, shrieking and scrambling for safety.

When the lights finally flickered back on, two complete strangers discovered they had chosen the exact same refuge: the cramped, dusty space beneath an old piano.

As they untangled themselves and looked across at one another, the impression was instantaneous. She was taken by his cheery smile and an optimism that seemed to vibrate off him; he was utterly smitten by her long, lithe, gorgeous legs—legs that he maintained, for the next sixty years, were the most beautiful in all of England.

Their connection was immediate, and four years later, they were married. What followed was a romance that survived the brutal separations of the Second World War and spanned well over half a century. They were, quite simply, inseparable.

In their later years, when Gran developed dementia and moved into a care facility, Gramps’ devotion only deepened. He visited her every single day, wheeling her out into the sunlight of the garden and holding her hand for hours on end. He was a man possessed by a single, noble mission: he was determined to outlive her, purely so he could ensure she was never alone.

Gran passed away at the age of eighty-two on September 16, 2002.

Following her death, Gramps’ own health began to falter, and he eventually moved into care himself. On September 15 of the following year, he looked at the nurses and made a quiet, certain announcement: "My darling is coming to get me."

He was right. The very next day—September 16, 2003—exactly one year to the day after Gran had passed, Gramps went to join her.

And I’ve often thought about that moment under the piano.  Two people, hiding in the dark, not knowing what was about to find them.

It turns out it wasn’t the murderer. 

It was a lifetime of love.

An essay I wrote, aged 16, about Grandpa's passing

Visiting hours

Even outside in the corridor, I could hear him wheezing and gasping for breath. I remember entering the ward with my father behind me. The nurses had warned me about his condition. They had said that he probably would not last the night and to expect the worst – and yet I was still not prepared for seeing him. His face was so pale and his eyes, sunken deep into their sockets and half closed, were lifeless. In fact, if it had not been for the wheezing sound that came from his lips, I would not known that he was alive. He looked up at me and our eyes met but I didn’t know what to say.

My shock gave way to a relieving numbness. I could not believe that this man was my ‘grandpa’, my vibrant, healthy grandpa whom I had accompanied on weekly walks along Muizenberg beach only months before, when he had been so fit that I had struggled to keep up with him.

I remembered how much he had despised illness and physical frailty, and all that was connected with it. When my grandmother had fallen and broken her hip, he had even hated the crutches that she had been forced to use.

Then he contracted Parkinson’s disease. I watched how his body began to betray him and he grew weaker and weaker. He had always been a reserved person and he now bottled up his feelings and frustration and refused to accept what was happening to him. Soon, almost unable to walk, his illness imprisoned him in the confinements of his tiny flat; only his mind was allowed to wander.

Stubbornness became his only weapon. Although he and my grandmother were totally incapable of being by themselves, he refused to leave his flat. I remember only too clearly how we all lived in constant fear of the telephone. Every time it rang, it was my hysterical grandmother to say that her husband had had another fall.

The day came when, after a particularly bad accident, they were forced to leave their flat for an old age home. And so it was that Grandpa entered an institution that he had despised all his life, an institution which to him was the very symbol of frailty. By staying here, he was, for the first time ever, acknowledging his weakness.

I remember the home well though I would rather forget it. The rooms were dark and small and the stench of urine and disinfectant which pervaded them, still haunts me. Although the nurses tried hard, it was a place where depression reigned, spirits sagged and hopes were lost.

After my grandmother died, my grandfather’s health declined even more rapidly than before. Soon he was unable to do anything. To make matters worse, his disease weakened his bladder and he soiled everything he wore – and so he lost the only thing he had left – his dignity.

My grandfather had never been a personal man. He loved his family but had always been too embarrassed to show it through any form of physical emotion. But now he let down some of the walls that he had built throughout his life and he began to show great joy in all my visits. However, although we loved each other, we still did not express it openly.

When he had gone into hospital. His throat had become encrusted with phlegm and the doctors frantically set about prolonging his life another week or two. Why they hadn’t left him in peace to escape his suffering, I will never know. They pumped him with drugs but it was to no avail. It was during his stay that he had taken a dramatic change for the worse.

I remember looking down at the wheezing, suffering man below me and wondering if it was all real. Here, in front of me was a man who was dying – a man whom I had known and loved all my life. But then our eyes met and I knew at once that it was – and the realisation hit me like a physical blow. Tears sprung to my eyes. I was suddenly filled with a desire to lean over him, to enfold him – but I had never done it before and so how could I do it now? My father stood beside me, as ill at ease as I was. We just stood watching, helpless, while he gasped for breath.

We left after a while with heavy hearts and had almost reached the car when I turned round I felt myself running frantically along the corridor and I was back in the ward. I sank down and for the first time in my life, I whispered into his ear “I love you, grandpa.” The smallest trace of a smile seemed to appear on the old man’s lips and he opened his mouth as if to say something – but a choking spell enveloped him and his words were lost.

I left the ward.

The phone rang early the next morning. It was the doctor to say that my grandfather had died during the night.