THE MORNING AFTER WALES’S FIRST win at Twickenham for 20 years, Gwyndaf found his father dead in his armchair, a cold mug of tea beside him, the television still on. On the armrest was the diary in which he recorded his life’s ephemera. The last entry read: “Went to the shops. Phoned Gwyndaf. Watched the rugby.” The old man’s final whistle blew before he could note down the result.
When Gwyndaf told me this story a few months later, I suggested it must have been comforting to imagine that his father had died in the glow of a
