Of all the trips between Paris and London this is the most painful. I was phoned just after playing football on Saturday morning and told my dad had died.
The team was celebrating coming top of the division and I think they were just about to break out the champagne. But I said my quick farewells not telling anyone of the news.
The middle child went out to a party and we told her and her big sister late in the afternoon. They were distraught.
I was on the train heading to London just on the verge of entering the administration of bereavement. I am upset because I was looking forward to going out for a coffee with my dad on Monday week before work.
He hadn’t called to say he was feeling unwell which he was perfectly capable of doing. And I hadn’t spoken to him for a week. So the whole thing is startlingly sudden.
For someone who had been suffering from prostate cancer, I always thought the demise was going to be in a hospital room accompanied by a bedside vigil until the end.
Preparation time. To hear after a game of football ahead of a weekend of French Open finals was not in the script.
I am not sure if I’m going to sign off from parislondonreturn for a few days or not. There was a heap of tales to tell about the end of the football season and even the tennis.
Not quite sure if I’ll be able to focus on those as there are trips to the mortuary to get to grips with and clearing up my dad’s flat.
Onerous times ahead.
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