Funeral for a friend

After a rather broken night's sleep, I was up early sorting myself out, getting ready to be taken to the crematorium at Croesyceiliog to officiate at Paul's funeral. Gary had agreed to drive Ashley and myself there, and Clare drove me to our rendezvous point at the Tesco filling station at half past ten. Having had high blood pressure problems this past week, I was reluctant to risk driving myself there and starting to feel ill. I wanted to minimise the stress, and was relieved to find they both intended to go. We were an hour early arriving, so Ashley and Gary went off to have a late breakfast, while I walked investigated the grounds, beautifully laid out and kept immaculately, and tried to familiarise myself with arrangements in place for the service as a result of covid19. Fortunately the toilets are now open, but the waiting room and superintendents office were shut, as there was an hour's gap between services before ours.

Colleagues from Cardiff Council began arriving a quarter of an hour beforehand, about a dozen of them, a few I recognised from several years ago, when CBS shared an office with the City Centre Management team. Then the family arrived, and I needed to introduce myself to them briefly before we started, since I was only known to James and Elaine with whom I planned the service. Just ten mourners were allowed into the chapel, all family. Former colleagues stood and watched silently as Paul's coffin was carried into the chapel by his sons outside. Bystanders waited until the end of the service to offer their condolences. Regrettably there was no external loudspeaker to relay the service, though a few apparently watched the webcast on their phones. I hope they'll watch the replay. I hope they'll think the eulogy did him justice.

We only had a twenty minute slot and unfortunately started and finished late, although there was slack in the schedule which meant the end wasn't unceremoniously curtailed. The usual arrangement whereby mourners gather under a canopy just outside the exit door has been suspended due to restrictions, to discourage gatherings in a semi-enclosed space. We were allowed to use an open air terrace around the corner, however, where colleagues got their chance to have a word with the family. There could be no wake, but there is talk of arranging a drinks gathering in the city soon, now that pubs are open again, as well as a memorial service next year.

Having known Paul when I was city centre Vicar, and then worked alongside Paul in retirement, for a total of eighteen years, I found this funeral as tough as the few family funerals I've had to do over the years. Normally when it's someone close, I prefer not to take the service but to be with the mourners. On this occasions I couldn't avoid honouring the family's request and experiencing grief of my own. 

After paying our respects, we made our way back to Cardiff. I was back in the house by two. Clare had just cooked a delicious curry for lunch, and when I'd eaten, I went to bed to mull over the experience and slept deeply for an hour. I was glad to have taken the decision to let someone else drive me, as it meant I could give of my best. If anything I came away feeling better than I expected.

After dropping me off at Tesco, Clare had taken the car to our garage to get a suspicious nose checked out. We had a phone call to say we could collect it, so I walked to Splott to get it, arriving just as the garage was closing. A quick stop at Lidl's on the return trip to stock up on nuts and a couple of wines to take to Oxwich Bay next week, before heading for home and a quiet evening doing nothing much more than writing this post. Rest in peace Paul.

  

Time flying by

I celebrated the Eucharist at St John's this morning, then after an early lunch was collected and driven to Gwent Crematorium for a funeral. The roads were unusually clear and we arrived half an hour early as a result. Among the mourners were in-laws who had come over from Ireland. Few of the deceased's actual family were left, many having died prematurely, suffering from Huntington's Chorea, an inherited genetic disorder. 

I thought it might have been a long time since I last took a service in that place, but when I checked my records, I discovered to my astonishment that it was over thirteen years, while I was still working at St John's. It serves a wide area, urban and rural, and its schedule of services is always crowded. The management is strict about service timing, half an hour from entry to exit, compared to forty minutes in Thornhill. It's not good to feel you're under pressure when taking a funeral, but that's just how it is. There's no alternative.

I was home again by three, and had time to go to the shops and have a good walk before sunset. In the evening, I spent several hours working on my novel again, as I did last night, and other nights when there's nothing worth watching on telly. At ten however, I stopped to watch another episode of 'New Amsterdam', which continues to hold interest as a hospital drama laced with moral complexities and strongly drawn relationships. Next week it's the twentieth and last. I've watched this for about three months after discovering it and watching the first half dozen on catch-up.