Douglas & Agnes Thurston - Ingrid 1956

parents/daughter

In this deeply affecting conversation, I speak with my Auntie Ingrid about her parents (my grandparents) —Douglas George Thurston and Agnes Franziska—whose improbable love story unfolded amid the devastation of post-war Germany. Douglas, a British soldier known affectionately as “Busty,” had survived the horrors of being a Japanese POW during the Fall of Singapore. He rarely spoke of it, once telling Ingrid simply: “There’s no glory in war.” Agnes, a German woman with a commanding presence and a generous heart, made sure no one ever left her home empty-handed.

Their story is stitched into the fabric of 20th-century history. They met in occupied Germany—Agnes reportedly chose Douglas because “he looks like he can get us food”—and built a life together in Britain, raising bilingual children who spent summers with German relatives despite the lingering post-war prejudice. Their household was a blend of cultures, resilience, and quiet defiance.

The most poignant moment comes in the telling of their deaths. Agnes died suddenly at 57, upon hearing that Douglas was critically ill after surgery. He followed her 15 months later. Ingrid’s grief is palpable: “I was angry for a long time that I was so young when she died… that my children didn’t see her.” Yet through her recollections, we glimpse the legacy they left behind—values of hard work, compassion, and quiet strength.

It’s a story that reminds me how love, even in the toughest of times, can forge something enduring. And how memory, when shared with tenderness, can illuminate lives that might otherwise fade into history’s margins. I came into the conversation with a few familiar threads, but I uncovered so much more--details, emotions, and stories about my grandparents that I'd never known. It deepened my understanding of who they were, far beyond the fragments I'd grown up with.

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"In a world where you can be anything, be kind."

Simon Redhead - Andy 1957

brothers

What happens when the quiet cornerstone of a family disappears? In this deeply affecting episode, I speak with Andy about his younger brother Simon — a man whose life, and sudden death, left a lasting imprint far beyond what anyone had imagined.

Simon grew up in Leeds, surrounded by teachers, and went on to become a much-loved PE teacher himself. It wasn’t until his funeral, attended by hundreds of former pupils, that the full extent of his influence became clear. “The place virtually came to a standstill,” Andy tells me, describing mourners packed “up in the rafters.”

Though five years apart in age, the brothers grew close over time, bonding through sport and their shared devotion to Everton. Andy’s recollections of 1960s Yorkshire are vivid — seaside holidays in Filey and Scarborough, pushing prams to school, and kicking footballs down quiet streets where “you could stop every five minutes when a car came along.”

But it’s Simon’s character that lingers most. Andy describes him as the family’s mediator — someone with “no isms or ists,” who could “look at things from other people’s hilltops.” He was the quiet strength that held everyone together.

When I ask Andy what he’d say if he had one more conversation with Simon, his reply is heartbreakingly simple: “I would ask him to help me.” A decade on, he still misses Simon’s calm wisdom, admitting he’s “about two out of ten compared to his ten out of ten” when it comes to resolving family tensions.

This conversation left me asking: What legacy do we leave behind? Who will remember our best qualities when we’re no longer here to show them? Perhaps it’s the quiet, everyday kindness that endures longest.

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"In a world where you can be anything, be kind."

Bembridge School - Bas & Miles 1964

friends

There’s something quietly remarkable about friendships that endure across decades. I recently sat down with my old school friend Bas—now living in Sydney—for a conversation that spanned forty years yet felt like no time had passed at all.

We found ourselves transported back to Bembridge School on the Isle of Wight, where we spent our formative years in the late ’70s and early ’80s. Boarding school life then had a curious blend of austerity and enchantment—freezing dormitories with ice on the inside of the windows, the five "houses", and house ties that marked your allegiance. It was, in hindsight, a kind of Hogwarts before Rowling imagined hers.

Our chat meandered through the odd rituals that shaped us: nicknames so entrenched that real names were practically forgotten, the infamous “Island Walk”—a 30-mile overnight trek through darkness—and ghost stories that haunted us in the best possible way. These shared rites stitched us together, forging bonds that have somehow survived time and geography.

Music was a lifeline. Bas credits ABBA with getting him through boarding school, while I remember The Jam as the soundtrack to our adolescence. Those songs weren’t just background—they were emotional anchors.

What struck me most was our shared sense of what Bembridge gave us. “It taught you respect,” Bas said, and I agreed. Independence, resilience, and a kind of emotional literacy that’s hard to quantify but easy to recognise. Though the school itself now stands empty, its legacy lives on in us.

This conversation wasn’t just nostalgic—it was affirming. Proof that the past isn’t lost, just waiting to be revisited with someone who remembers it too.

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"In a world where you can be anything, be kind."