I'm not even the best writer in my own family - and this is why

It was my mum's funeral yesterday.  I read out a eulogy during the service which took me about 97 hours to write and which took around 7 minutes to read out.  On the whole I thought it was pretty good, but my brother had done his just before me, and I thought his was better.

I've always been proud of my brother, and in many ways I wish I was more like him, but I've never been more proud of him than I have in the last two weeks since mum died.  The way he's helped me to organise the funeral arrangements without any fuss, and always with a sense of perspective but also a sense of fun.

But if there's ever been a high point in terms of how proud I feel of him it was during that 7-10 minutes yesterday when he spoke about my mum at her funeral.  I don't think it's even possible to describe how proud I was seeing him do what he did.  And it wasn't just hearing him speak, it was the words too.

He's given me permission to guest publish his words on here, because I thought they were so good that other people should be able to read them.  Anyway, this is what he said.  It won't be as good written down, but it's good enough.

Early Memories of Mum

Being mum's shopping partner and helping her make decisions (something she was terrible at).

Sometimes on Garforth Main Street, sometimes Leeds.

I must of spent at least a complete month of my life in the two chemists on Main Street looking and helping to choose hair dyes - I could tell you the exact location and layout of these sections of both shops and the little loops of hair that I'd run my finger back and forth along for what seemed like an eternity.

'I liked this one but I thought it was Auburn but it says it's chestnut and I don't want chestnut'.

So I'd find one 'This one's Auburn'

'No I don't like that'

'Which of these two ash blondes is the most ash blonde?'

I should of said 'Mum, I'm 6 I have no idea what that even means' but I remained patient in the hope she'd take me to Sparks Hardware shop and buy me a screw driver.

Mum's bag was always full of bits of wallpaper, fabric, cushion covers, curtains, tiles, flooring, bits of wood...whatever she was trying to match at the time for the latest decorating project.

'Does this go with this, do these match, which of these nets do you like the best?'  I'd often pick wrong and she'd say 'I don't think I like that one' and we'd have to start over.

The reward would always be some low end cafe like the 4 Cousins or Athena, endlessly being told not to drink all my milkshake before my food arrived, which I invariably did.

I loved to hold her hand inside her jacket especially the fun furs she had.

We rarely disagreed on anything but by the time I'd reached Junior School the clothes I'd wear were certainly one thing - she eventually caught me hiding clothes in my bag so I could change into them when I got to school.  I know it upset her at the time and I felt terrible about hurting her feelings but it was hardly surprising that her son had become as impossible to buy clothes for as her.

We certainly never disagreed about her clothes or how she looked - she had such style always on a very low budget but never cheap she always looked great especially in her 50s and 60s and dare I say 70s.  In the last photos she was in at the recent family reunion she looked absolutely amazing.

Teenage Years and Terry

Everyone thinks it was so tragic that period of her life because it ended quite unpleasantly.

The stories we'd tell each other from that period were always filled with laughter.

The way he would sound like he was dying when asked what he wanted from the fish shop - 'I'll just have half a fish'.

His food never being hot enough and him microwaving it to death - her shouting 'Terry, you're going to crucify it!'.

Him calling her petal even when she was super mad with him.

When he was clearly starting to lose it and he put a block of frozen peas in the deep fat fryer and he couldn't work out how they had disappeared from the basket.

Towards the end of those days when she took him out for his birthday and he tripped and ended up rolling down a hill near the Old George - mum saying one minute he was there the next gone, I just heard him say 'Petal, me legs av gone'.  

Later life

After me and Jonathan had left home and moved away we sometimes didn't see each other for months at a time and rarely until more recent times were the three of us together - we all had busy lives - but it didn't alter how close we were, she would always be my first call with any news, good or bad.

When we did catch up often it would be after a holiday.  I loved to look at her photos, photos that have given us such tremendous comfort these last few weeks - I loved them because they were so often so bad, out of focus, people photographed when they weren't expecting it, heads chopped off, people not exactly looking at their best sometimes, but always loads with people laughing - she always made new friends on holiday and she was always blessed to have good friends to go away with over the years.

I know coming to Greece where me and Liz got married was huge for her, being included and getting to know our friends made it extra special, especially Brucie who was like a third son fussing around her and making her laugh so much.

I guess the next big event is the hardest for me to share with you - just saying the word Grandma - take a breath.

Before she became too ill she used to look after him once a week - Jack could get her to do anything, he'd get her to look for things under the sofa even though she knew she'd struggle to get back up, he even got her to open the ultra messy moon clay that we'd banned him from opening - they both ended up completely covered.

I honestly believe that without him she couldn't of come through some of her illnesses - she lit up as soon as he walked in the room.

Not being able to watch him grow up and talk to her about him will be the hardest part for me but I cherish the memories of them together and their last phone call could not of been more perfect.  Jack said 'I love you' and she said 'I love you back' and Jack ended it by saying 'You're my sweetheart'.  I'd like to think those words and his little smiling face were what she thought of as she departed.

Illness

No doubt she was hounded with illness in her final years but we were still able to find laughter no matter how dark the subject.

We all three of us made fun of the cancer / stroke / knees etc.

Death

What today would be like

Who would come and what would they wear

What possessions we would be having off her.

She even told a great story about how she had slipped over outside when we had the last really heavy snow and how because she couldn't bend her knees she was like a big tortoise on its back trapped in the snow and how she'd laid there for a bit imagining the news headline of being found dead outside just feet from home - but having not done her hair and make up found the strength to drag herself back indoors.

She went as she would of wanted - on great form, in high spirits, looking good, enjoying life and able to spend time with friends and family - if living longer would of meant going back to those darker times none of us would of wanted that.

Finally throughout my life the overwhelming feeling of being loved and cared for and her caring about anything and anyone that was important to me.  We always hugged and we were never embarrassed to say I love you.  I still feel her love every bit as much even though she has passed and I know I always will.  Love you Mum.


There's really nothing I need to add.  I was really pleased yesterday that I got the chance to share my own memories of mum, but a concern during this week was that we might be squashed for time as the crematorium services are by nature quite short, and between us we knew we could only speak for a maximum of around 15 minutes.  At one point during the week, when Phil read me a draft of what he was going to say, I told him he could have the whole 15 minutes if he wanted.  I was so impressed with what he said, that if only he had spoken on behalf of the two of us, it would have been enough.  But in the event we shared the time out 50 / 50 and I think that's right.  Above all, we wanted to do justice to our mum through our words and I think we did.  Funerals are strange because you can't rehearse them, and you can't go back and do them again if you foul them up.  You get one chance and one chance only, and so you have to feel at the end of them that you've done your very best for the person who you're saying goodbye to.  And knowing that we managed to do that between us is a huge weight off our shoulders.  Anything less really wouldn't have been good enough.

Another quick point is that we had to sack the guy who we'd initially asked to conduct the service for us with less than 48 hours to go before the funeral because separately Phil and I were absolutely appalled at what he'd written about mum.  He'd shown absolutely no understanding of the message we were trying to get across, and it would have been a travesty to let him anywhere near the service after that.  By some fluke or miracle or act of grace we managed to get Rev. Joanna Seabourne to do the service for us at the last minute, and she did it exactly as we wanted, and much more in keeping with the spirit of mum.  And we're incredibly grateful to her for stepping in, and dragging us back from the brink of disaster at the 11th hour.  Thank you Joanna.

Look at what you could have won - Memories of Bullseye and of my mum whose funeral it was today

Considering that my mum only died 2 weeks ago, it might sound wrong that I've spent so much of the last two weeks with my brother Phil laughing and telling each other funny stories, but hopefully somewhere in there is a clue to what it was like to be part of our family.

You've probably seen the gameshow Bullseye. People used to win some Tungsten darts and 30 quid if they were lucky, and then they'd also win some other stuff like a food mixer and an iron, and they could gamble them at the end to win a speedboat that they couldn't tow because they didn't have a car, but Jim Bowen would always say, about the darts and the 30 quid. That's safe.

And 'that's safe' was mine and mum's favourite catchphrase.

If I was passing her her disabled badge to put away, she'd say that's safe, or if she was passing me some tomatoes to put in the fridge, I'd say, they're safe. To us it was funny every time.

I've been using her car for the last year. Last time I borrowed it, she said to me. Jonathan, you know how I always come to the window to wave to you when you leave, and you know how you always wave back. Yes, I said. Well, I'm not waving to you, I'm waving to my car.

I've always hated decorating, and I think it's because I saw so much of it as a child. I'd get home from school on the 19th December and I'd think 'Great 2 weeks off school', and I'd walk in the house, and she'd be up some ladders wallpapering. And I'd say Mum what the hell are you doing, it's 6 days before Christmas? And she'd say are you blind? What does it look like I'm doing. And I'd say, but mum why? And she'd say she wanted it to be nice for Christmas, and I'd say why no-ones coming, it's just the 3 of us, and she'd say, well it'll be nice for us.

Mum was always very particular about her appearance, and she seemed to be fascinated by shoes. When Phil was still in a pushchair, she used to call him the Road Runner, because whenever she'd stop to look at shoes, he'd get out of the pushchair and run off. I only wish I'd thought of it.

Mum could spend days trying to make her mind up, even about the most trivial of choices. She'd generally like the first pair of shoes that she saw when she was out shopping but then she'd go to 20 other shops to see what else was available and then go back at the end of the day for the ones she'd liked first, which of course had sold out by then.

Trying to order a meal in a restaurant with her was torture. She could never decide what to have. Even when recently I was only taking her out for fish and chips, and pretty much all they sell are fish and chips, she'd say, oh I don't know Jonathan, mushy peas or no mushy peas, it's such a big decision. Whatever she did end up ordering, she wished she'd ordered something else, or she'd think what you were having looked nicer.

Ever since I can remember mum lied about her age. I once pointed out to her, when I was 7, with nothing but primary school maths to go on, that she was lying about her age by at least 6 years.

Shut up Jonathan, she said. In our family Shut up Jonathan was actually a term of affection.

She was always sensitive about getting old though. A few years ago, I once suggested to her that she start going down to the day care centre to get a hot meal once a day.

The day care centre, have you lost your mind? It's full of old people. I'm not ready to join the blue rinse brigade yet Jonathan, most of the people who go there look like upturned bogbrushes, with their little white perms. No thanks.

I don't think I ever saw her with a grey hair her whole life. When she had a stroke a few years, what upset her the most aside from not being able to drive, was not being able to see properly to do her own hair and make up. She wouldn't even go to the hospital without putting her face on.

Mum loved a bargain. She loved finding stuff in the sale or from charity shops. Anything she bought for herself, she'd say 'I thought I'd treat myself'.

The last thing she bought me was a Jasper Conran shirt from a charity shop, I thought about wearing it today, but I think she'd be annoyed if I didn't wear a suit.

The first time she used her blue badge, it saved us £3.50 on parking, and as we pulled into the disabled space, she actually shouted 'Back of the net!'.

I know she'd be appalled that we've spent some of her money on a perfectly good coffin that's just going to be incinerated in about half an hour. What a waste of money, she'd say.

It sometimes occurred to me that she never listened to a word I said. I could spend 40 minutes talking to her, and I'd think 'she hasn't heard a bloody word I've said there', and then two weeks later I'd speak to Phil, only to find out that she'd repeated the story to him word for word.

It's not that she didn't listen, it's just that we couldn't always tell she was listening.

As she might say, she didn't like to make a song and dance about things. I remember telling her I'd passed my exams at school, and she'd say something like that's nice. And so I told her again, just to make sure, and she'd say I heard you the first time, no need to go on about it. No-one likes a show off.

Sometimes when she was talking, her stories could be hard to follow, a bit like mine, she could ramble on a bit and listening to her stories could be quite frustrating.

The day she got her cancer diagnosis I took her to the hospital and that evening she had to ring Phil. The conversation went a little like this. Hi Phil, well my appointment was at Ten , we got there 10 minutes early, but we couldn't get a parking space, all disabled bays were full, eventually we got parked just after 10, the young nurse who checked us in, she's from Barnsley you know, she drives to Leeds every day, it's costing her a fortune in petrol....and I was thinking. For God's sake Mum, just tell him you've got cancer.

A couple of weeks ago I had to ring Phil myself from A&E to tell him mum had died suddenly. It was really playing on my mind, that I didn't want to drag it out in the way that she might have. I didn't quite say. 'Hi Phil, it's Jonathan, mum's dead' but it wasn't far off. I actually felt absurdly pleased for saying it without much of a build up.

Although there's never a good time for your mum to die, the last 7 months I've spent with her since I moved back to Leeds has been one of the best times I've ever had with her.

In the last few weeks before she died, I used to go round for tea a lot, and our current gameshow of choice was Pointless.

It's quite appropriate that we used to watch Pointless, because most of our conversations were pretty pointless. But they were that lovely playful pointlessness that happen between people who love each other, where the content doesn't really matter, all that matters is that you're talking and laughing and spending time together.

We'd talk rubbish to each other about people we saw on TV, like what the hell is he wearing? Why would you wear an orange T-shirt on a gameshow, he's going to be seen by millions, why didn't he wear a shirt? Even if he turned up wearing that, surely they've got a wardrobe department that would have made him wear a shirt. Oh my God, he's got no teeth either, he's only 36, surely he could get himself some teeth on the NHS?

There was very little that happened to us in our lives, that we couldn't laugh about. In fact, some of the grimmest episodes of our lives gave us some of our favourite stories. I think the way the three of us told each other stories was the very best thing about being in our family.

So I hope you'll continue to remember mum, like I will, in the stories that you tell. I'm sure you'll have plenty of your own. And if you can't think of anything funny to put in them, try harder. Because with my mum there was a funny side to almost everything. Just being alive is so absurd at times, that if you can't think of anything else to laugh at, just laugh at that.

We always did.