Tuesday, January 06, 2009

6th January 2009

Another funeral today. In the same place: which today didn't affect me in the slightest. I felt braced by thie discovery.

A completely different funeral, too. So much cying yesterday: a sense that Stanley Eveling was not ready to go, and nor were his family ready to let him.

Today's death, Bernard Crick, was someone I knew better, and really liked. A brilliant writer, a generous man, and a really alive man, even if often an impossibly difficult one.

Last time I saw him he did look tired. He'd had prostate cancer most of the fifteen or so years I've known him. I should call him 'Sir Bernard', though I think I preferred him as Bernard. Honours don't do people much good.

I saw David Blunkett wipe away a tear or two, and my companions eyes filled as we sang "Freedom come all ye...". But this was a much mellower affair, somehow. Beautiful music, distinguished company... it went on for almost two hours. The dramatist in me kept screaming: "Cut.. Cut.. Cut.." and I found myself planning my own funeral. Far fewer words. More silence. An open coffin, and I think I'll write the script.

When should I begin?

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Comments:
agreed, a little long but essentially a lovely event.

the jazz band arriving in the snow set the tone nicely.
 
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