It’s grey down here in Londinia, and the most spectacular clouds are parading. Two fox cubs played in our garden earlier today. The apple blossom’s out in full frilliness and the double tulips (two sorts: pink and white stripes like boiled sweets – and inky purple) are making their first, magnificent show.
I’ve slept for 13 hours since I got back from the North yesterday – a swift and comfortable ride on a Virgin Pendolino, but one with an erratically-functioning coffee machine. I could’ve done with a coffee – The Coach, her partner and I having downed a bottle of wine each the night before.
The Coach and I had been to the funeral of our closest friend’s Dad; a really lovely man, reknowned for his kindness, enthusiasm for life and calm, tolerant handling of his children. And what a great funeral it was. Standing room only. Two beautiful elegies from his son and his daughter. Cards and specially-drawn pictures by the grandchildren on top of the coffin. Last song, to play us out? Buddy Holly’s “Peggy Sue”.
And the spirit of the man everywhere: in the affection that everyone expressed for him and each other, the acceptance that we were all feeling sad and were crying, and the – what? am I allowed to say it? joy? – JOY at remembering him.
As his wife, Eileen, said to The Coach and I, “Wasn’t he fantastic?!”
Yes, Peter Watson, you really were. Fan-bloody-tastic.