Of course, everyone knows of my Dad's passion for photography. A lot of you here today will also know, and indeed, fallen victim to his passion, even talent, for teaching. Dad was always one for helping others, including some of the youngsters who came up from Mum's Cub Pack through into Scouts. One of our very dear friends sent me this message very recently and I think it sums up our Dad very well. 'Your Mum and Dad were heavy influence in my younger days and hold a special place in my heart. They helped me on many occasions within cubs and scouts. I'll never forget how helpful Ted was when myself, Robert Bradley and Stephen Gillings had to complete our Chief Scout Award. He was so encouraging and patient when it came to showing and teaching us about photography. Such a kind and helpful man.' Indeed, he taught many, many people over the years and, from what I'm told, taught well. However, he wasn't so great at teaching us! I remember one time being in the back of Dad's then car, when I was about 10 or so. He was attempting to teach Mum to drive. 'Try not to drive down the middle of the road,' he said 'keep away from oncoming cars.' Mum duly moved over slightly to the left, whereupon Dad yelled 'I didn't say drive on the bloody grass verge!' at which point Mum stopped the car, got out and hasn't been behind the wheel of a car ever since. Dad and I became very close, as we trundled back and forth to Frimley Park Hospital. He would regale me with stories of his working life and laugh about all sorts of silly things. we often joked that we'd get in the car and just tell it 'Frimley Park' and Roobarb (the car) would drive himself, so regularly were we over there. His sense of humour never left him in spite of undergoing a lot of invasive treatments. Just as well really because the route to the cardiac unit in Frimley sports a conveniently placed, gentle slope. Often he would say to me, 'you can't keep doing this, you're just a little girl!' (I'm 53) as a result that slope was just a little too inviting! Yup! I'm ashamed to say that I let him go! He found this hilarious and upon reaching the unit got his own back by introducing me to the staff as 'my daughter, the witch.' He faced death in a similar fashion and, whilst me, my brother and my Mum were hauling him out of his bed late one night, he said to us 'well if this is dying, I don't think much of it!' When we fluffed up his pillows in the wrong way, we'd be greeted with his classic 'in it marvellous.' What always struck me was how brave Dad was. Whatever they threw at him; lasering his eyes, cutting the cancer from his ear, the uncomfortable echo cardiograms, the angiogram, travelling to and from Frimley on so many occasions, he never complained. He just said 'do what you have to do Doc.' Even the nurses who tended him in the last couple of weeks said that he was lovely to deal with and no trouble at all. We had difficulty in believing it was the same man! One thing I do know for sure, he told me the week before he died, was that he was very, very proud of all us, right down to little Mia, his great granddaughter, whose picture he kept on the side table in his sick room. He said 'Poll, I love each and every one of you,' Our Dad wasn't perfect, he didn't always get it right, who does? but he was always supportive, always there with a grin and a 'Dadism' to talk about stuff, to give his opinion and worry like hell over us. As my eldest nephew, Richard, said not long ago 'he's a silly sod, but he's our silly sod!' how right he is. Rest peacefully Dad, as you said on numerous eye appointments 'over the top.'