Number of days since I started this blog: 87

Number of hours since Dad’s funeral: 4

Number of glasses of wine I have drunk since coming home: more than 4. I think.

When someone who is quite old dies, their funeral should contain an element of celebration, shouldn’t it? A chance to be sad about the person’s passing but also to mark a life well-lived. To get together with other people who knew and loved them and to tell a few stories, share something to eat and drink and raise your glasses in honour of the one who is the reason for you being there but sadly cannot be with you on account of it being their funeral.

And then we had the corona virus. Some of you reading this will have been to funerals during this time. And you will know how strange they can feel. How the rules about sitting two metres apart and not being allowed to touch one another, and the attendance limit, 8 in our case, makes them feel more like a court hearing than a celebration of life. How every attempt you make to introduce a bit of joy seems to be stymied by the rules. No printed order of service, it has to be up on a screen which makes you feel that the lovely photo of your parents you wanted to include might look inappropriate. So you leave it out and then spend the whole fifteen minutes wishing that you had followed you instinct and left it in after all. Yes, you can have music. But it has to be sent in advance, so you lie awake the whole night before the service worrying that they will use the wrong version of Beyond the Sea and play the one by Frank Sinatra rather than the one your mother eventually chose, under duress, sung by Bobby Darrin, having said that she hated the Sinatra version. No flowers, apart from one small wreath, which you spend ages on the phone choosing and costs £120. And then it arrives looking so mean and bedraggled, it is as if you had picked it up from Tescos five minutes before the service. And you know everyone thinks how useless you are, that you had one job etc.

And because of the shortage of time, there is only time for one reading, which Emma reads, being the eldest grandchild, and one address, which obviously your sister Lydia has to do, given she is the one with the most public speaking experience. And she does it beautifully, but you sit there thinking awful thoughts that it should have been you. Because after Ruth died, you became Dad’s oldest daughter.

And then afterwards you stand around in the car park in the rain, talking awkwardly to your two nieces who you haven’t seen for ages and can’t think of anything to say to, 2 metres from your beautiful daughter who you haven’t been allowed to hug in three months even though during that time your mother has nearly died and your father has actually died and she has come out as a lesbian. And your lovely son is standing on the other side of you, and you are really pleased he is now back with his partner Marnie, but because you have your Mum living with you this means that you can’t form a social bubble with them and therefore you will still have to maintain a 2 metre distance from him and your beloved Kezia. And not being able to hug them when for a moment during Boris Johnson’s speech about social bubbles you thought that at last you could feels almost more upsetting than losing your dad.

And all the while your mother is sitting forlornly in a borrowed wheelchair not saying anything to anyone and you realise that your job now is to take her home so that she can be bereaved in private.

So we went home, and Lydia followed on later, by which time Mum and I had polished off a bottle of cheap Merlot and I was rummaging in the cupboard for some crisps. And then Lydia plonked a Waitrose bag for life on the table and pulled out two bottles of expensive English sparkling wine, a sourdough loaf and some wonderful cheeses. And we sat there for ages, gorging, swigging and burping. Dad would have absolutely loved it.

And when I eventually went upstairs for a pee, stumbling slightly it has to be said, I found my phone. And there was a message from Brian. And it said:

Thinking of you, dearest Sadie. I hope today went as well as it possibly could. Looking forward to tea at the allotment on Sunday afternoon and a discussion about social bubbles. B xxx

Is he thinking what I am thinking??

To read my blog from the beginning, just go to the link on the menu bar above or click here.