Death, beauty and the writing of a will

Perhaps there’s a German word – for there’s no English one – for that alloy of liberation with melancholy that comes with having faced up to something sad. I have made my will. A draft for my English will lies on the desk beside me, and early this week I flew to Catalonia to make the Spanish will that my brisk and capable Bakewell solicitor said I’d need.

I’m in excellent health for a man of 73 and, God willing, may have many years left; but there’s no gainsaying it – these things need to be sorted out in an atmosphere of calm when there’s time to get it right. It’s what my father did, without a fuss, and Dad is my inspiration in these matters. ‘No favouritism,’ he said, ‘and strict mathematical equality as to the portions.’