The funeral is over. There was no hot water, so my shower was icy cold on a grey rainy day. I went to the church where I helped to greet those who came, monitored and paid off the trumpeter. Then followed the coffin. Then sat through the service. Then accompanied the family to the crematorium. Then accompanied them to the reception. Then helped them flee when they couldn’t bear it any more.
Dreaded disasters didn’t occur. No Bertha emerged from an attic, nor was there a hysterical attack upon the priest. The pallbearers didn’t trip. The priest was pompous, but no more than a priest need be. The singer could sing and the trumpeter arrived late but played well. There was a decent turnout. The chief mourners made it through, and I survived probably my only experience of a nearly-chief-mourner at a Christian funeral. Later I walked over Hampstead Heath in the rain to get sushi for dinner.
Now, with sickness, death and funerals all over, others will return to their daily life. Not the mourners, so a difficult time lies ahead.