The Donut Man

My mother emailed me last weekend to tell me the donut man had died.

He was only 53. Just dropped dead.

I only met him a handful of times. All in the short exchange of buying fresh hot donuts. A profession which would naturally endear anyone to me. And I still feel sad that I will never see him again.

Last time I was over in the UK, one of our first stops was the donut man. To introduce my children and tell him how often I reminiced about his donuts with them.

He was a kind man. A caring man. Someone who appeared to do what he loved, with what he had, where he was.

He made great donuts. The best I’d ever eaten. And served them with love. I always felt great having interacted with him. He cared about his customers, what he made… and did it for at least 15 years. He was a part of the high street.

It’s rare in this world to come across people who love what they do. Who do it whole heartedly.

We have a man who runs the petrol pumps near us. In his 70s I’d guess. I go away from our interactions with a full tank of petrol. And a full heart. He calls me lovey, and always has a smile and a kind word.

Doing what you do wholeheartedly. Whatever your chosen work.

It fills me up.

I remember you fondly, donut man… your kindness, and your delicious donuts will be missed by many, many more than me, I know. Bless you.

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