My grandfather was a proud and difficult man, passionate, intense and vital. He had survived black-water malaria, a fall into a canyon in a locomotive and squaring off against Rommel's troops in North Africa during the second World War. He had been selected to play rugby for his country as a young man but had declined because his brother had not been selected and family loyalty came before loyalty to country. He had the old-world manners of a bygone era and would doff his hat and click his heels when being introduced to a lady no matter how young or old. He wore a hat every day. By the time I was at junior school, the wearing of hats was by no means a common practice and so the silver-haired old man in suit and tie with his hat and brass-topped cane was a well-known sight around town.

My grandmother would send him on errands "up town" every day. There would be a small shopping list and perhaps a bill to pay. I believe it gave them both a break. My grandmother could get on with her housework and my grandfather could indulge his passion for conversation while getting a little exercise.

He would set off at about 10:00 every morning, straight as a ramrod, striding down the street with his shiny cane swinging at every stride. He loved these daily outings and even in the sweltering heat of a Durban summer, he would never leave the house unless dressed in a suit and tie, his shoes boned military style to a brilliant gloss. He had his "girlfriends" in every shop and despite his conservative political views, the "girlfriends" represented just about every ethnic group in the country. Every day he had to stop and talk to each of them and so a newspaper, a box of fishfingers, a loaf of bread and a bag of onions could represent a ramble of three hours.

However, I believe he never enjoyed these outings as much as when it was school holidays and I could go with him. I adored him and he called me by the nickname he had given me very shortly after birth - Snowball. I would be required to watch as he shone his shoes and to comment on his choice of shirt and tie for the day. I would be champing at the bit, eager to get to town but this was a process that could not be hurried.

I don't remember much of our conversations during those walks but I do remember the sound of his laugh. He would burst into laughter at something I had said and I would continue to skip around him, undeterred. Grandpa laughed often, loud and long and when I think of him, it is his laugh that I remember best. That and the gingerbeer floats.

Gingerbeer, South African style, is a spicy, ginger-flavoured soda, cloudy white in colour, that burns mouth and throat as it goes down. Ice-cold, it is about the most refreshing non-alcoholic drink on earth. It comes in a brown can or bottle as if to warn you that this is a serious beverage. Before we set out in the morning Grandpa would suggest that today might be a good day for gingerbeer floats. Granny would scratch out an empty bottle for the deposit and re-adjust her calculations for the shopping.

We would buy the gingerbeer last, just before reaching home. It had to be ice-cold. On arriving home, I would watch impatiently as Granny and Grandpa discussed each item on the shopping list, what had been paid for it and which stores were "just a bunch of crooks". It seemed as if the discussion would take just as long as the shopping trip, but finally Grandpa would call, "Snowball, do you want a big glass or this small one?" He knew the answer but I think he liked to see the look on my face when he suggested the small glass, because he would chuckle and put out two large ones, each on a saucer to catch any spillage.

A float, for those who have never had one, is a helping of vanilla ice cream in a glass of soda. Usually Coke is used, but for us only gingerbeer would do. Grandpa would pour the fizzy white liquid into the glasses, until they were about two thirds full. He would carefully replace the cap on the bottle and put it back in the fridge. To me this was a tortuously slow process. Then he would take the ice cream from the freezer and place two or three large spoonfuls in the top of each glass. The ice cream would be packed away and he would place a drinking straw in each glass and a teaspoon on the saucer.

" OK Snowball, which one do you want?" Grandpa was not like my mother or grandmother who would have automatically taken the glass with the least in it. This was a game. No one would go short because there would always be a second round of floats, but I think he wanted to see my competitive spirit. This was my turn to play it slow. "Well this one has more gingerbeer in it but I think this one has a little bit more ice cream. So I think Grandpa, because you like gingerbeer so much, I'll take the one with more ice cream". This was completely faulty reasoning because Grandpa also loved ice cream and I knew it, but we both loved this little game and the floats would not have tasted half as good without it.

We would take our floats to the patio and become deeply engrossed in them. For those who have never had a float, it is a frothy, uncontrollable beast that must be approached with care, a teaspoon and a drinking straw. If you attempt to submerge the ice cream too soon, the soda will fizz wildly and spill over the side of the glass. If you leave it too late, the soda goes flat and you are left with a ball of mushy ice cream stuck halfway down a glass. There is a perfect moment when with the aid of the teaspoon, the soda and the ice cream can be mixed and slurped through the drinking straw and herein lies the pleasure.

Oh, but the pleasure for me was those summer days, the walk "uptown", and the anticipation of those lunch-times, sitting with Grandpa on the patio.