So it was the day after the day before. All that we had been leading up to, all our enegies had gone into it. Now the funeral had passed.
This morning was calm at Brymoor Road. We are all relieved and the fact it was such a beautiful day and so fittingly perfect for her made it easier. If it is possible to be so, we were even quite upbeat, happy, smiling and together.
I guess the fact she had such a long illness and was so unwell made it difficult for her and everyone over the past few weeks, months and even years. As her health failed, it meant big family meetings and occassions were impossible. Strangely in her death it released all that and once again Brymoor Road became the meeting point and reference point for people it once was.
Firstly my Bro popped in with wife and neice in tow. Then, after i had done my power run to my favourite spot and marvelled at the raw beauty (Heavy wind and i'm not talking about the Keema Saag last night, meant the sea was choppy, grass rushes were rolling like waves, the noise was loud and you could lean back into the strong wind and it would hold you up. It was stunning)
Had a big pray up and shouted out a few things to the wind, the sea, to Nan, to God and to whatever it is that is bigger than me. I let the fact the 3.30 at Chepstow didn't come in, but i was certainly 'in the moment'.
Then my cousin came round with her hubby and 2 young boys. The women chatted Jenkins the Bakers, Hairstyles, catering, whilst the boys played computer games, ate rock cakes and the men discussed airplane seat designs and roadworks. It really was the old days back at Brymoor.
Then it was time to visit Aunt Gwyneth, Aunt Barbara and meet another 2nd cousin i did'nt know existed, Rhian. Settling down in the floral 3 piece suite for more tea, welsh cakes, Kit Kats and Cake, i wasn't sure i'd get up. I'm fucking stuffed. No wonder there is a massive Obesity problem in Llanelli. Someone get me a mobility scooter quick.
I forgot the Breakfast offering was yesterdays buffet of course, i think enough food was ordered to feed the entire centre court, though not sure Andy Murray's nutritionist would approve of the pasties, sausage rolls, scotch eggs, pork pies and rock cakes. Still, it may cheer the miserable bastard up a bit.
Yesterdays funeral was picked over, all the latest gossip of who attended, who left early and who was 'lovely', the Vicar was praised, as was my Eulogy once again. Even Uncle Ken and those rocked up and joined in. It really has connected the family, welsh relatives and sense of community again. I think thats what has made it so special. The Matriarch has brought everyone together. She rocks!
Then it was to her grave to say goodbye, spend a few moments of reflection and thought before heading back to London. Back to reality. Back to work after a few weeks of stress, worry, sadness, grief, family, Wales. It has been stressful and of course the main thing on my mind, so to think of reality again was quite of a let down.
Still, i left with a positive feeling in me. One of celebration, warmth, love and a vow to try and live my life with a little more dignity and honour, grace and gratitude. With a touch more class. Lets see if i can?
So depsite it being a funeral and sad occassion i left feeling happy with good thoughts, with peace and serenity. Until i got to London of course and switched onto watch Andy Murray at Wimbledon on a Saturday night under the lights. Fuck me, my peace went out of the window then.
I mean, i know my Nan was loving and kind to all, and i apsire to live with a little of the peace and gratiitude she did, but would someone please smack that little cunt Murray? Every fucking point he was having a tantrum and snarling at everything. Like he was in a permanent road rage. Or stomping his feet at dropping his PS2.
Fucking little tennis wimps. They should man up not bitch and moan like a little fucking girl guide because he kept on playing shit.
And whats with all that stupid fist pumping after every point when his oppostion played even shitter and hit it in the net. I mean fair enough if you're playing like a god like that dude v nadal, then pump all you like. You've earnt the pump. But doing it when you're opponent plays like Heather Mills with woodworm is just wrong.
Even 'team Murray' were all pumping their fist. or not so much pumping as doing the same with their wrist as you do when you play 'paper, stone, scissors'. It just looks Gay, I used to think Muuray was a little more mean and less poncy, but he's making Tim Henman look like Charles fucking Manson.
Can someone Please knock them out with a rolled up Daily Mail?
I'm enjoying embracing this new peaceful, graceful dignified attitude. I think it;s coming on nicely don't you?
xx
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