Done

There it is. It is done, and in the past. It is now just the Thing that ITHOM said it was.

The day for me started with the long drive, a drive that would have felt ten times longer had I not had the lovely, sensible, funny, and not too silly, L by my side in the car. We talked a lot, bitched about work, and then she slept. Even when she slept, it felt safer to have someone with me, just there. I put my mp3 player on, with earphones so as not to disturb, and listened to a lot of Yasmin Levy, a lot of Edith Piaf, and a lot of other stuff.

We found Rogers, who went straight to ITHOM and A, a grieving little triumvirate. We ate, I changed, and we drove to the crem. The weather was crap. It couldn't even rain properly. Rogers said he wanted thunder and lightning and a big gothic storm. I said, "This is weather for English grief, don't you think? Miserable but not really tragic or over-demonstrative." Someone else said, "No, this is really V funeral weather: raining, but not so much to ruin your clothes."

And that was really the tone of the afternoon: truly sad to have lost her, but with her somehow there all the time. We walked slowly into the chapel--a really beautiful building, modern, but nice--and waited more or less in silence. The service was bit heavy on the Catholic guilt for ITHOM and me... lots of 'condolence' knowing we'd 'meet our sister again in the house of the Lord.' Yep, been there, done that, scars to prove it. Ah well, as the minister and I agreed later, the ritual is a port in a storm. But overall, it was a truly lovely service. D, her widower, did fantastically well, and read the Shakespeare sonnet (116) that had been read at their wedding. I was of course a blubbering mess. Her sister-in-law and best friend had done her true justice in a fabulous outfit, and spoke of their shopping and dancing together. L had spoken a lot about the dancing in the car too. Rogers drew the short straw and read the bidding prayers. I was mightily impressed with how very obviously deeply he had committed himself to the role, despite his better judgement on the subject matter. And in between the readings, and the family politics, there was song: no hymns, thank God! no hymns. But Edith... who had coincidentally kept me company on the journey: 'Je ne regrette rien'. It was a fantastic recording, a live one, and I was only sad that they didn't let the applause run for longer in the chapel.

She was an odd-bod, in many ways... we all knew that, and everyone will admit it. But in the end, my judge of a good person is Posh, who had not warmed to V at all when we all had coffee in Montreal. Anyone Posh doesn't especially like is almost always a really good person. For myself, I'll always remember the Lovehearts sweets she sent after the book launch last September--a totally unnecessary thankyou for my organisational efforts, and such a very thoughtful one as we'd had a conversation that weekend about retro sweets. The choice of Edith was so apt: so very bright, and strong, and a sad story, but in the end we are left only with the strength, of Edith's voice; and of V's determination to do a really fucking good job of living.

So it's done. I've lost my funeral virginity, and I'll never hear that song the same way again. It's a Thing. But if for nothing else, I hope I can find one ounce of that determination and buff my own life up a bit.