Wednesday 1st November 2017

The day of the funeral.

In actual fact, looking back, it wasn't a bad day. It was sad, for sure, but also was uplifting, as I met so many family and friends of Tony's I had not done so before. Remembering their names is going to be impossible of course.

We get up at half six, the heating had switched on, and the cats were complaining. Outside it was a fine morning, dawn well under way, it would have been great to stand and watch it, but the cats were complaining.

As the implications of Mum's possible to transfer to Papworth struck home, Jools said more shopping was needed, at least milk if nothing else. So, I say I'll go to Tesco rund round getting the stuff needed; potatoes, onions and bread, there is room for bacon of course.

And back home with the school run and rush hour under way, I am at least travelling in the opposite direction to that, but have to cross it to get back home, waiting for a thoughtful driver to allow me to cross at The Swingate.

And then there is the quest for a haircut, for both of us. I need one, and Jols said she did, for me it was a case of being in Cherrytree sometime after nine and waiting for a free chair; might in and out in 20 minutes. Jools on the other hand had to find somewhere that would let her slip into a chair and be cut with no appointment.

Jools drops me off, and inside the shop there are no other customers, just the young woman sweeping up last night's clippings. So I am shown into the chair and buzzing and clipping away as my barnet is well and truly mangled, and I look half respectable.

Afterwards I sit on the wall outside the tyre place, and watch the dreadful driving on display as people come out of side streets and the Lidl car park. No indicators were used in the execution of this maneuvre seemed to be the statement the drivers were sending out.

In fifteen or so minutes, Jools comes to pick me up, we both were nicely shorn. Back home for showers and to put on sombre clothes, have a brew and a biscuit, and somehow it was twenty to twelve, and time to go.

I drop Jools of at Jen's, as I will cal it from now on, as she is to ride in the limousine, and I drive to the crematorium in Denton, halfway between Dover and Canterbury, to wait. People began to arrive, including "uncle" John Whitman. He lost his wife last year, and is the way, has visited here more often than he'd like. He still smiles, he has a son and daughter with hum, and still manages to smile his infectious grin.

At half past, with maybe 50 people waiting, the hearse arrives, preceded by Mike with Jenny on pillion, riding Tony's last bike. Mike and his son, George, help to carry the coffin once the all clear is given, and we file in behind. On a screen, shots from Tony's life play on rotation, and causes many tears.

The service begins, fine words, we sang Jerusalem, listened to Meg speak so sweetly about Tony and his life and family. Nessun Dorma boomed out, the minister said fine words that counted as a Christian and atheist sermon, and it was time to leave. To the sound of Walk of Life, we left Tony behind, and went out into the light.

We milled round, we greeted and hugged people we knew and those we didn't.

Jools got a ride on the bike, so I drove alone to the old Railway Club for the wake-cum0celebration. Jools and I used to live in a flat right behind it, and noise from the Saturday discos used to keep me awake. It seems a lifetime ago, but was nine years at most.

People arrive so I go into the club and order a pint from the bar; less than three quid a pint, good value, and good beer.

Once everyone had arrived, I realise I knew very few people outside the family, so sat and listened to the stories, all that make up a person's life; the friends, connections and neighbours we make through our lives, and in whole holes and hearts there will be a Tiny-shaped hole.

There is a buffet, a good one, though typically British; sausage rolls, ham sandwiches, Scotch eggs, crisps, slices of coffee walnut and Battenburg cake. And pickles on sticks. Yes, pickles on sticks, pickled onion, gherkin, pineapple chunk and cheese scube. The upmarket cousin of the cheese and pineapple on a stick of my youth.

At four, Jools and I go home, taking Reach Road along the cliffs, as it was such a fine afternoon. But already the light on another day was fading. Ferries still shuttled back and forwards, but there were no dogwalkers out along the cliffs, and it was cold under the clear blue skies.

Jools goes out for dinner; battered sausage and chips. Its the easiest thing to have, and we eat to the sound of another chucklesome edition of The Unbelievable Truth.

Football in the evening, and more writing. And outside a near-full moon rises above the low line of clouds to the south east, strong enough to cast shadows.