Yesterday's funeral was as is to be expected. Somber expressions, polite smiles, generally dark attire, and positive thoughts and memories about the recently departed.
I am embarrassed to admit that I easily recognised Paul and Carol, my Father's neighbours, but totally failed to identify my second cousin; Judith and friend from my teen years; Winnet.* Fortunately they were both very kind, saw my lack of recognition and saved any further embarrassment by introducing themselves.
One recurring conversation throughout yesterday was that everyone I spoke to said that there was no mistaking who my Father was and that I was his spitting image.
I'm not really sure how to take this, as I was being repeatedly told that I looked very much like the ninety two year, lying in an oak coffin at the front of the crematorium!
Only the other day a young lady at the Ophthalmology clinic commented that I didn't look sixty. Fuck me I must have aged in the past few days!
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* This is clearly not her real name, but a cruel nickname assigned to her nearly forty five years ago. It is a corruption of her surname and has a most unpleasant meaning in these parts. We all found it hysterical at the time and it's still mildly amusing now.
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