Cape Town - Many obituaries, many columns, many tributes, many poignant Twitter farewells.
The death of Sir Terry Pratchett will cause an outpouring of words - fitting tribute to a prolific and much-loved author.
Many of those columns will be beautifully written, and anything I can do will pale in comparison.
So I am not going to try to sum up his literary greatness, or his impact on the reading worlds of teenagers, or his courageous fight with Alzheimer's.
Instead I am just going to remember.
My sister first introduced me to him via her battered copy of The Colour Of Magic. I don't know when that was - some time in the eighties I guess. I was hooked, and started reading (alongside all the science fiction and fantasy I could lay my hands on)
By the time I met Bob, the man who was to be my husband, I was up to date and waiting for the next novel.
Our relationship began in a mutual ability to quote whole tracts of Douglas Adams books, so it wasn't too far a leap to a mutual fondness for Pratchett.
Those multi-coloured books were soon more than just a mutual interest - they were a thread in our marriage.
There was at least one Christmas where we unknowingly gave each other the same new Pratchett.
We have whiled away many a pleasant hour in a pub speculating on which film stars could best play favourite characters: John Thaw for Vimes? Meryl Streep for Granny Weatherwax? Judy Dench for Nanny Ogg? We remain stumped by Carrot, though.
We have both re-read all the books several times. We possess all of them (though for the life of me I can't find Feet Of Clay). We talk about his characters as though they are part of our lives.
And some of those characters are guiding lights to me, touchstones for the right thing to do in difficult times.
So immeasurably sad as I am that there won't be a new Pratchett this Christmas, I am in awe of the power of a great writer to change and touch the lives of his (or her) readers.
Thank you, Sir Terry.
IOL
* Renee Moodie is IOL's Deputy Editor