It's ten years since my dad's funeral. A little over ten years since he was found alone in his house, slumped in his armchair, wearing a pair of Wellingtons.
I've got one regret. Not that I only saw him three times in the last 14 years of his life. Not that we didn't make it up and become great mates.
My one regret is that we didn't bury him and inscribe the headstone with the words...
"He died with his boots on."