My name is Bert. If I were alive today, I would be 102. But in fact I passed away when I was 76 years old. It was quite a peaceful passing, from a stroke, in the nursing home where I had been living for two years. I was living there because I had had another stroke earlier on, which left me paralysed all down one side, and I couldn’t feed myself properly – I had to wear a bib – and I couldn’t talk properly either. All I could do was cry. My eyes filled up with tears and overflowed, even when I was happy. I couldn’t stop them. It was quite embarrassing, because I was a very big, tall, strapping bloke. Also I had to leave Echo without any help. She even had to look after the ute on her own, though she didn’t drive. My brother Alf used to drive her down in the ute to see me at the nursing home every week. I tried to remind her that it would need petrol. I didn’t like leaving her to cope with everything on her own, after nearly 50 years married. All in all, it was a bit of a relief in a way when the second stroke carried me off.