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I had cause to search through old family photographs this week, a task that should never be taken lightly nor when in a rush. Old pictures: of my brothers, dad, mum and nephews, and family in Northern Ireland, time in Port Elizabeth fresh off the plane, years on the East Rand and a glorious spell in Grahamstown.

Most of those pictures were in a briefcase and one of those old hard-shell cabin luggage bags that were more for show than storage. Some of the photos had stuck together, others preserved like the day they were developed. All told stories of love, adventure, hard times, good times, growth, birth and, often, because they are old family photographs, loss...

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