Mostly the funeral was annoying. A gathering of the tribes, all old, grey and ..........grey.
The vicar bloke at the crematorium spoke well and conjured up the wraith of Uncle Ron from the war in the desert, motor bikes in his black leather helmet pulled firmly round his ears. Only turning to a car, it is claimed when it became illegal not to wear a proper crash hat.
Thru his engineering and electronics jobs and up to date with his many clocks.
His son cried when his dad was referred to as his best friend [only friend muttered in my head]. We were sat behind and I wondered who was this little dishevelled lady sitting crying next to son [far left] then I suddenly realised it was my big, impregnable Auntie Cinders [in blue].
It was hard to see her gazing at the coffin in front of her, just crushed.
But that is what funerals are for, once we were all out in the cold again, curtains demurely closed around Uncle Ron] the tribes spent what seemed like hours chit chatting about what they had been up to since the last funeral, while I looked on feeling angry and guilty at the same time.