The Ceremony Begins

You never picture yourself at one of these ceremonies, but if you did, it would be like this. Cold, damp, and overcast. Perfect. As it should be. I always feel that the sun has no place here today; it feels too much like it’s trying to put the fun into funeral. I’d done that before; it took me about five minutes to realise I was at the wrong crematorium. But no danger of that today, for we have been here before.

A Strange Gathering

I don’t know what the collective noun for an assemblage of dogwalkers might be, but as we are gathered here without our faithful friends, perhaps it matters not. What a funny lot we must look. An exercise in discordant harmony, a vivid palette or a jangled display of conspicuous colourblindness. But the instructions were no black.

Why Did I Not Wear Gloves?

So here we stand, awkward, self-aware and cold. Why did I not wear gloves? More jumble-sale chic than haute couture. But this is South Norwood, not Paris. Saarf London.

The Crying Widower

Then the hearse arrives, the widower walks and the infectious grief grips us all. He cries, I cry, we cry, he grips my hand, I grip back, I have to pull away in the end, but I feel he does not want to let go. Briefly, I am all the support he needs.

Memories of Funerals Past

Soon, all is a composite of every funeral I’ve ever attended. I can feel an anxiety attack brewing. God, how I hate funerals — but as the other half says, “There is no life without death.”

The Old Car and the Dogs We Lost

Will she go to mine or will I go to hers? Perhaps we will go together. Given the state of our knackered ancient vicenarian Rav4, it’s a possibility. Who will give up the ghost first? I love that car as much as the dogs it once carried. Three became two, then two became one — and then there were none — but we still have the old banger — and of course, the memories — oh, such memories.

Dogs and Dog Walkers

Dogs are the reason we are here today; dogs and dog walkers go together like Chaource and Tomatillo chutney. A perfect combination — believe me, you won’t know until you try it. I recommend both fine cheese and canine companionship; they both enrich your lives, layer upon layer of complex flavours — and, of course, the smells. It’s a fact that you never truly appreciate what you have until it’s gone.

The Chapel Service

We follow the crying man into the chapel. It is warm and bright, such a contrast to the sombre drizzle. Such is the shock. I’m not sure if it’s love or central heating that warms the space — and our hearts. The service is short and sweet — always leave them wanting more.

The Perfect Exit Line

The celebrant ends up by saying there are drinks and snacks back at the Conservative Club bar — with that, she invokes all our memories of Daine by signing off with one of her classic lines, “Now Bugger Off” I can almost hear her now. I could almost hear the smiles of the audience. The perfect exit line. With that, it’s time to go. With heads bowed and handshakes, we shuffle out to the sounds of All Things Bright And Beautiful. I only ever hear it at funerals. Why do I never have the courage to sing it with the gusto it demands — maybe next time. God — what if it’s me?

The Mysterious Moan

I thought I’d been mistaken that I’d misheard — perhaps I imagined it such is the day, but outside, a mystery is solved. All morning, I thought I heard a football crowd occasionally sigh — possible — we are near enough to the Crystal Palace ground. It sounded like it was a close call — almost a goal. Yet impossible — no games are played at this time on a Friday morning. But what is the source of that ghostly, mournful moan? The ghost echoes of a long-forgotten game?

The Croydon Tram Mystery

Can you believe it? The sights and sounds briefly align as I catch a fleeting glimpse of the Croydon tram — it was the screeching of the wheels all along — but dog moves in mysterious ways.

The Egyptian Geese Say Goodbye

I see that the Egyptian geese have tired of all the excitement and have waddled off into the cemetery. Are they the pair that live in our local park? Perhaps they are their offspring. They have had loads. It’s possible, after all, it’s only five minutes by car — a lot quicker as the goose flies. Did they come to say goodbye? Perhaps they have doffed their beaks in a fond farewell to Daine and buggered off too.

Bob and Daine

Bob and Daine both loved birds. To us dogwalkers, it was always Bob and Daine. Now it’s just Bob.

In Memory of Diane Edythe Fosberry
11th December 1947–5th January 2025.