Holy fucking shit.
My uncle died last Sunday in his sleep. He wasn't even sixty. Completely out of the blue, he went to bed, fell asleep and never woke up in the morning.
He was one of my favourite uncles. A bit eccentric, he liked to build full size, fully working replicas of World War II fighter planes in his shed and sell them to museums. His last plane took over six years to build, a complete labour of love.
He was a quiet man, contemplative, but always friendly. One of these people who didn't speak really until they were spoken too. He loved to talk about the war but really hated the Germans.
He leaves a widow, my aunt, and a son, my cousin and friend who are still grieving over the loss of our grandmother three weeks earlier.
If there is a god, he has a sick fucking sense of humour and terrible timing.
We don't need this shit.