A strange day today. I took my son to football and his team was playing a village near Cambridge called Papworth. Papworth is home to a hospital famous for transplant operations here in the UK and it was at that hospital - which we passed on the way to the ground - that my brother, Paul, died of an infection following a heart and kidney transplant (his second heart transplant, in fact). That was getting on for twelve years ago. I felt a dropping sensation as I drove by, as though I was coming down on a swing that had swung too high.
It was especially poignant to be driving past with my son. He was born very close to when my brother died. They never met.