Andy Richardson: Give a little to remember those we love a lot

My grandad and I did none of that Boy's Own stuff. We didn't need to. We were too busy having a good time.

Instead of lassoing the moon or finding a pot of gold at the end of the rainbow, we planted vegetables, cut fragrant sweet peas and carved small tobacco pipes from acorns we'd found at Red House Park.

As an eight-year-old kid, I was just about to take my first puff of tobacco from an acorn pipe with a drinking straw stem when my mum walked in and caught us. That, as you can imagine, was the end of that game.

I loved my grandad. And my grandad loved me.

I came into his life at a time when he'd stopped drinking with his mates and started to mellow. He'd reached the autumn of his years and doted on his youngest grandson, who idolised him back. I thought he was a superhero. And he was.

My grandad was a tall man, lean and slim. He had a gentle face and I only ever remember him smiling.

We'd play tricks on each other.Once, I encouraged him into his greenhouse, then popped back into the garden, closed the latch and hid. He was trapped for 10 minutes, before my nan spied our game and freed her captive husband.

Alf wore thick woollen jumpers, knitted by his wife, and spent his latter years gardening at a big house near to where he lived. He was a beautiful man. His life was carefree and happy, it was filled with sunshine and laughter.

His death came quickly. He'd spent his adult life drinking and smoking like a trooper; if anyone was a cancer diagnosis waiting to happen, it was him. I don't remember much of his illness. My parents were too smart to expose me to the death of my much-loved grandad. They shielded me from it.

As his condition deteriorated, we'd go to see him once a week at Heath Lane Hospital and then at his home. But during the final fortnight we were simply told he was tired and too poorly for visitors. And when his funeral came, I went to school as though it was any other day. I was too young to see grown people dress in black and cry for a loved one.

But I wasn't done with Alf. Death hadn't robbed me of him. Death never really takes away our dearly beloved, does it? A few years later, I decided to organise a sponsored event to raise a few bob.

And I picked a cancer charity to be the recipient. The logic was simple: men like Alf would be cared for better if I raised money for Marie Curie Cancer Care.

I was a member of a table tennis club, run by my dad, in Wednesbury, so I organised a 24-hour event. A local factory, GKN, sponsored the 11-times British champion, Desmond Douglas, who became the world number three and later represented Great Britain at the 1988 Seoul Olympics.

GKN gave us £100 and agreed for Des to launch our event. The Express & Star even sent a photographer. And so, watched by a crowd of dozens, the British number one played the captain of the West Bromwich Junior Team, me.

We played through the night. By 2am, the lesser lights had decided to take a nap.

But a hardcore group of six or seven of us kept the tables going around the clock.

As we reached our 24th hour, my legs had seized. I was like a marathon runner who'd hit the wall but not given up. I was still standing, though I resembled a robot with two legs made from oak.

We're inspired to raise money in memory of the ones we love or to assist a cause that's close to our hearts. We run 10K races, jump out of aeroplanes, cycle from John O'Groats to Land's End or have our heads shaved in an outpouring of love for the people who matter most.

We tweet links to JustGiving pages, ask friends and family to sponsor us, set up Facebook pages and hope that people will support us.

And in doing so, we celebrate the lives of those who've gone before. We pay our respects to people who've walked tall in our lives.

The kind lady from Marie Curie was delighted with the cheque we presented to her in memory of Alf. And Alf would have been proud that we'd commemorated him in that way.

Charity begins at home. It was ever thus.