So ... I'm just off the phone to my mother. It's 10:20 p.m. here, 11:20 a.m. there. My mother, who sounds tired but well, tells me that she's been out to have her hair done, the clothes she's wearing later have been chosen and she's not long after a cup of tea with a roll and sausage. There's a layer of snow on Mansfield Road, she says. Near May's house in Aviemore there is a metre of snow and May's daughter Victoria, who went skiing yesterday, had to brought off the slope by a snow-clearing team because the lifts are closed. May, George and the girls only just made it south over the Drumochter Pass before the snow gates were closed on the A9. Yes, says my mother, the flowers arrived yesterday and they are lovely. I tell her that I'll call again tomorrow.
I guess its natural that we don't dwell on the details of Jim's funeral in two hours time from now. He died on New Year's Eve, eighty-five years old. My mother's second husband. A decent man. Together they were mad as brushes but they lived happily for almost twenty years after both had buried the first spouse. Rest in peace Jim. You've either found the answer or not.
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