I have to say, today, I’m quietly mourning the loss of a friend.
Or, at least, a sort of friend.
After reading near enough everything the man wrote? Came to see him both as friend, literary hero, and all round good chap.
His contracting Alzheimer’s Disease, in 2007? Was especially nasty, especially as the condition killed my Gran.
Yesterday?
Yesterday, Sir Terry died: of natural causes.
Terry took Death’s arm and followed him through the doors and on to the black desert under the endless night.
— Terry Pratchett (@terryandrob) March 12, 2015
I’m gutted: as are a few friends of mine, who equally saw him as friend and favourite author. (I know one old friend, Victoria, was finding work difficult: as she told me, herself, news of his death left her unable to concentrate. I know what she meant: I felt physically nauseous.)
Whatever I fell? The fact is, my favourite author is dead.
I’m quietly mourning.
And offering my condolences to Lyn and Rhianna Pratchett, his wife and daughter, on what must be one of the worst few days of their lives.
~≈®≈~
