Before March, death was not something I gave much thought. Sure, I knew it would happen sooner or later. But it was far enough into the future that it didn't really impact my day to day life. Being told you have been pushed up the queue changes all that. One of the negatives of hearing this news is that it does stick in the mind, and every now and again announces itself like an unwelcome fart in a lift.
So, today I was driving over to Street to run an errand. I must concede that I was not listening to particularly uplifting music: I am pretty sure I was singing along to Joy Division's "Love Will Tear Us Apart" at the moment in question. As I droned another chorus my thoughts drifted to choices of music for my funeral. Happy stuff, I think you can imagine. And it was then I found myself crying. I haven't had a significant wobble for some weeks: I have not been taking an outdated, and nonsensical, "real men don't cry" approach. Rather simply I have been holding everything together quite well given the circumstances, and have been remaining as upbeat as I could possibly be. I can't even blame Street on my emotional dip. Whilst the town is not a cultural and architectural oasis of beauty and wonder, it has given Clarks Shoes and Hecks Cider to the world, so there is a lot of positives in that alone.
Giving thoughts to plans of a loved one's funeral is painful enough, having to think about your own is grim (even if the music will be spectacular). And for a mile or so into Street I was feeling low. Even Billy Bragg's rousing
didn't help much.
The trough ended, and I was fine by the time I parked up and got my stuff done. When I got home I sent my wife a note and told her I loved her.