It's been a hectic couple of weeks.  Funerals work is now starting to come in and the weekend before last I did a course on baby naming. I've done three funerals in the last two weeks and have another one booked for next week, including my dad that means I've done six so far.  It's hard and stressful work, but also very rewarding and I've had wonderful feedback so far.  There are some frustrations however.  My fellow celebrants are a very mixed bunch, some are really great and some are in it because they like the sound of their own voice and/or to allow their prejudices to have a free rein. I am definitely a humanist, but I'm becoming clearer and clearer that I don't especially want to conduct "humanist" funerals, I would rather conduct a funeral as a humanist, which for me is quite a different thing.  Lots of my colleagues have a hatred, even a fear, of any religious references within a service, thus creating a kind of "humanist space...

Since the early 90s I've been going on an annual St George's Day bash organised by friends that I knew when I lived on boats in London.  These days I make it about one year in four and my relationship with the event is increasingly ambiguous.  It's great to meet up on old Thames barge and see Tower Bridge open for you. I don't even mind the faux patriotism, as they're a mixed bunch from many walks of life and many of them have a pretty balanced view of what patriotism is and its relationship to nationalism.  Actually what I find difficult is the drinking and the fact that since I first started going my life has changed quite radically, whereas most people's hasn't.  I think many of them see me as a much more serious person these days, possibly dangerously thin with an unmentionable disease.  The fact is I can't bear getting sick with booze anymore and I have less need to say things in this group setting.  I no longer have a desire to entertain or...

I bought myself a new gps watch last week.  I find the act of going out running or cycling and recording a track which I can then upload and look at on a map strangely magical.  I started doing this when Sue and I were in Borneo, where there were so few maps or signs that it was actually a good way of getting a picture of where I really had been. I've got a busyish day today so I decided to get a bike ride in this morning.  It was cold and bright as I cycled around the flat surrounding countryside, past bright yellow fields of oilseed rape and along dykes.  At one point a young deer broke cover and bounded along in a field next to me.  Eventually I cycled into the middle of Lincoln down the Foss Dyke and into the Brayford Pool before returning to dad's bungalow. I guess I should stop calling it that, I suppose it's my bungalow now, though it doesn't feel like it.  I feel I'm camping here while I finalise dad's affairs, which is nearly done now.  ...

It's been a couple of weeks since Sue and I scattered dad's ashes and she is back in Borneo and I'm still in Lincoln.  I've been gradually emptying out his little bungalow of some of his more idiosyncratic personal touches.  Like the clocks everywhere, in wooden boxes with fake pendulums and cheap quartz movements.  Maybe they were his idea of a joke about time passing.  The oddest things make me tearful, such as the plastic model of the USS Constitution that has stood on the living room window ledge for years.  He made it when his hands still worked properly and it must have taken a lot of time and care.  Now it's all dusty and some of its spars are broken, it has no value and I've moved it into the garage to await its fate, probably the recycling bin.  All that time and effort for nothing. Hanging up my washing I noticed that the pear tree was in bud.  A few years ago dad tried to "make a feature" of it by painting it in creosote and sti...

Sue and I made our way to South Dock Marina on the morning of Wednesday 19th March to meet our old friend Pedro Lewis, who had laid on a workboat.  It was a good place to start as the marina is on the site of the old Surrey Commercial Docks where dad guarded the gates for much of his PLA police career. We headed out onto the river at about 10.00am with the tide still making.  The thirty or so minutes down to Greenwich passed quickly as we talked of people and boats we had known, some now dead or sunk.  As we headed downriver the sun began to shine. I remembered the spot where dad and I had scattered mum ashes twenty two years before and gave Pedro directions: "its just after the entrance to the Greenwich foot tunnel on the Isle of Dogs side, where you can see up through the naval college to the Queen's House and the Royal Observatory. On reaching the spot Pedro stemmed the tide while I opened the little tin box containing dad's ashes at the stern of the workboat...

The period after dad's death passed in a blur of administrative stuff.  After someone dies they have to be killed bureaucratically and this takes a lot of effort. In contrast the Memorial Service came together quite easily.  Dad's local social club was the obvious choice and booking and organising the catering was straightforward and dad had given me a list of people to invite.  In the end there were about thirty people, including dad's principal carers which I was very pleased about. One thing I really wanted was a bugler to play the last post and to my surprise the Royal Marines provided one free of charge.  Bugler Gillian Forde, who was very serious and very professional, played beautifully and then ate a vast amount of sandwiches before driving back to Portsmouth. Rosemary operated the lights and Sue controlled the music.  Which made me feel very supported.  It was lovely too to have our friend Claude there, all the way from Puglia. ...

(Opening music: the “One Fine Day” aria from Madame Butterfly sung by Maria Callas) Opening Words Welcome everybody to this memorial service for my dad, Douglas Jean Duckworth.   Dad died of pneumonia on 8 th February 2015 in Lincoln County Hospital. We discussed what he wanted in the way of a send off a few months ago.   He decided that he would like to be cremated anonymously, followed by a Humanist memorial service at a venue near his home.   He liked the idea of the cremation being anonymous, because having been to Lincoln Crem. for the funerals of his first wife, my mum, Eva and his second wife Phyllis, he had no affection for the place and it pleased him to think that this would put more money behind the bar for his friends to enjoy. He also chose the music that was played earlier.   It’s the “One Fine Day” aria from Madame Butterfly.   The “Humanist” bit was mainly to please me, as I’m a Humanist funeral celebrant and he probably t...