A few weeks ago I gave the eulogy at my father’s funeral. As I spoke to the gathered mourners, I was struck by the fact that there was not a spare seat in the packed crematorium hall. He had five children and 11 grandchildren, but still: where had all these people come from? Who were they? How did they know him?
My father was approaching his 88th birthday when he died. He had lived alone as a widower for 13 years, and he had done so having survived his own emergency operation the day after my mother died, which left him in a coma for weeks, followed by months of rehabilitation.
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