I don't wear my mourning clothes very often, thank goodness. A freshly laundered white shirt, a black jacket unwrapped from the dry cleaners (not actually a suit but the forecast was for showers), suitably shiny shoes and a tie in my pocket in case sartorial standards require. "Don't worry on my account," he'd have said.
The crematorium is busy, but in a streamlined way which helps prevent you noticing. The day is cold but the trees are bright and the wisteria is fortuitously at its peak. At the appointed time the family arrives, one down, and the chapel fills up from the rear. The deceased beams out from the back of the order of service holding a large carp.
Sarah Brightman is faded out halfway, having already wrung out maximum emotion. The celebrant inserts all the correct names, places and dates into her meticulous eulogy. Eldest grandson's tribute is a tour de force, a very personal homage to the joy, the love and the laughs. The spaghetti bolognaise anecdote raises multiple smiles.
The video screen bursts into life to display a carefully compiled selection of family photos. Cheeky kid, young husband, busy father, proud grandparent, family man. And at the end of the sequence, with visceral impact, a brief video clip of the deceased raising a glass to the congregation as his body lies in a box a few feet to the left.
Leaving a rose on top of the coffin proves awkward for some of the shorter members of the immediate family. No rollers roll, no curtains close, not until we're all safely outside emoting amidst the floral tributes. That is a great photo, but when it was taken nobody would ever have guessed it'd be the one chosen to sum up his life.
The wake is a short drive away, although it takes a while because the black limo has to slow down to negotiate every set of speed bumps. Turn left past the bottles of ketchup to the farthest room where subsections of family and friends will assemble at atomised tables. A sea of black and white, of brooches and ties, of raised glasses.
The food arrives slowly and runs out prematurely. Stories are shared, memories are raked, the brioche burgers disappear with gusto and the mood has subtly lifted. In a way it's like any other family gathering but with one notable exception, the reality being that the composition of a family gathering has irrevocably changed.
Slowly the commemoration ebbs away, each departing party offering thanks and words of comfort before slipping out to the car park. I wasn't intending to linger with the hangers-on but they don't let you take the bus home in these parts, they offer you a lift. The tie stayed in my pocket. I don't wear my mourning clothes very often, thank goodness.
