The funeral wasn't until 1.45 in the afternoon, so I had time to finally get some exercise. In the ten days since I had my incident at the gym, I've not worked out at all, and have put on a few pounds. Why it's so much easier and quicker to add pounds than subtract them, I'm not sure. Anyway, I went out for a run this morning in the local fields with Kirstie's dog, Kim. It was a crisp morning, but it was warm enough to not wear a sweatshirt. It was a pure joy to run along the fields with Kim bounding along beside me. She did show signs of some confusion at first. She'd keep stopping as I ran into the distance, and she'd stare at me from afar, as if unsure she should really be following me. But she soon got the hang of it, and was soon ahead of me, turning down paths before I reached them. Which proved a good thing in the long run as I've a terrible sense of direction, and could easily have gotten lost going home. What was even more pleasing is that I didn't have any problems with my breathing. I'm beginning to think that the strange attacks of last week may be behind me. I'm still, however, going to go ahead with my plans to reduce the stress in my life.

We were all ready by 12.30. Kirstie had never seen me wear anything except jeans and a t-shirt. At least, not since I was in high-school, where I'd had to wear a uniform. So I felt quite proud when she said that I looked very dashing in my rarely worn suit. We drove into town to meet the rest of the family at my other sister Sally's flat. It was the biggest gathering of the clan in my lifetime, probably; all the immediate family, of course, my cousins Paul, Gary and Pam and their significant others (it seems that all straight people have significant others), and Gary's daughter Claire with her boyfriend. We'd meet more family members at the crematorium, but, for now, the biggest excitement was over the introduction of my brother's partner, Simon, to my Dad. Although my brother isn't officially out to my Dad, I think it's pretty certain that my Dad is at least subconsciously aware of their relationship. The introduction went fine, although I noticed that my Dad and Simon never actually got to speak to one another all day.

Everybody except the immediate family left for the crematorium, and then there were just the five of us, waiting for the limousine. When we rolled into the crematorium, we stopped to let my Dad out. He'd already told us that he couldn't face attending the service, and he was just going to walk through the pretty grounds during the brief ceremony inside. I felt kind of silly at the formality of it all; everybody waited while the four sons and daughters were escorted in to the front row, and the service commenced.

It was a beautiful, simple service, with a couple of hymns. My Dad has a magical way with the written word, and he'd written the most beautiful tribute to my Mam, which was read by the Vicar. It made me realize how lucky I was to have two parents who truly loved each other to the end. He said that they'd held hands for forty years, and that he still felt her hand in his even now.

Then we were taken outside to see the flowers, set out in the sunny courtyard. It was yet another warm day, by now, and it would have been nice to sit outside there in shirt-sleeves, listening to the birds sing. But we had a wake to attend at my least favorite establishment in St Albans, the old Pean Hen. I ended up there sitting at a table with my cousin Gary and his family. I hadn't seen Gary in twenty-five years, but the people where I come from, around Newcastle, are a friendly, outgoing, unsophisticated sort, and there was no awkwardness about spending time with them. And my Geordie accent was coming back in spades.

All in all, the day was nothing like I'd expected. It was my first ever funeral, and I'd expected something like what you see in movies and on TV - relatives in black, weeping over the grave. Yet there were no tears. Though I'm quite sure that my Dad felt lonely and alone when he returned this evening to his bungalow, having laid to rest the light of his life.