I needed to go to nearby Hatfield Peverel as someone was buying a laptop from me and I offered to meet them halfway. I decided to have dinner at a place called the Willam Boosey that Gail and I used to go to a lot. A lovely restaurant and bar that was true Gail; full of sparkling things, chrome and quirky furniture, this was a pub Gail could have designed and happily lived in. I wasn’t sure it was wise but what’s the worse could happen, eh?

The waitress stared at a table plan in an empty restaurant before taking me to what Gail and I called ‘our table’. I felt wobbly as I walked towards it.

You see, we had a meal there on Christmas Day and the same table was allocated to us, as it was every time we visited. We used to joke about it ‘having our names on’ and call it ‘our table’. I now have to explain to the poor waitress why the old bloke in the corner is having an emotional breakdown in an empty restaurant.

Another appearance of the coincidence that means so much. This one had a special significance though and brought home the value of social media and how – despite the fact I was having misgivings about opening up my thoughts online – the medium can support and reward.

After posting the name of the pub / restaurant and Facebook had woven its magic by coming up on the Pub’s timeline, the staff contacted me to offer their condolences. Then reading my past posts they contacted me again to say they remembered Gail – most people did once they met her but this was well beyond that – recalling a meal the pair of us had in their garden a few years before and how the staff had all said how great Gail looked and how well we looked together. They even told me what we had ordered! All the staff, they wrote,  were shocked and saddened at the loss of such a ‘beautiful lady’. This was wonderful, the idea that – with all the customers they had through their doors every day – everyone recognised her and had specific memories of a random afternoon some years earlier. I just broke down and sobbed when I read it.

Of an added significance they couldn’t realise though was that afternoon in the garden that they all remembered had been when we had gone there to commemorate the loss of a dear pet – our first Cat Puss-Puss – and the whole thing seemed to fit together in a lovely jigsaw.

I go back when I feel low and think I can handle it. The staff know me now and I always get ‘our table’.

So, the Humanist called tonight. Her name is Lovejoy. That would make Gail happy as she was a huge fan of Ian McShane. She didn’t need to try and sell me her services; as soon as she told me her name I knew she was going to do it.

An early appearance for the type of dark humour that sustains you. Also the first vague indicator of those little coincidences that you like to attribute more too. The first growing hope that, perhaps despite what you’ve said your whole life, there might be something else after. This will return and return as you try to make sense of something that nobody has ever made sense of.

A big day. Normally. The start of the football season. My team West Ham United were on TV for the opening match. They lost 4-0. I just sat there watching. Or not watching. Then posted on Facebook

“Well, who knew? For the first time in my life I sat and watched West Ham with not a flicker of interest in anything, Didn’t care they lost, wasn’t much bothered how they played and realised, by the end, I wasn’t even watching.

Life will be interesting if this continues for the rest of me natural.”

Yes, of course it changes. But not much. Words that constantly crop up in football and sport in general: ‘Tragic’, ‘Disaster’ ‘Unthinkable’. They have real meaning in grief. The first time West Ham scored a goal and I jumped up in celebration was a few months after. I avoided football for a while as it didn’t seem right to attend and, in fact, celebrating that goal felt wrong. I stood up, glanced around nervously and sat down again. Grief is good for putting your priorities in order.

“Keep your eyes open, Pet”
“They are open!”
“They’re not!”
“They are! Look! See? * pointing at her eyes and opening them wide *You’re an eejit”
“I’m not an eejit, I’m telling you your eyes are closed”
“They’re not!”
….Continue for 10 minutes until I get a photo….with her eyes closed….

Gail was born in Hong Kong as her Father was stationed there, both were British and from the North-East of England but Gail’s gorgeous eyes had many thinking she did have some Chinese blood in her. I used to tease her about it all the time. Particularly when I wanted to take a photo of her and see those eyes.

“Gail’s Cremation is on August 29th with a Celebration of Life after in Gail’s favourite Bar / Restaurant. Anyone who wants to come please contact me for details. BTW Don’t feel you need to tell me you can’t come or don’t feel it’s right because you’ve not met her / seen us in 10 years etc. I understand that. It’s fine. Your thoughts and words have been enough.

Donations to Lupus UK – Get this right here, right now, it’s that fucking disease she died from. I don’t care what it says on the certificate – or the Cat Protection. Or flowers if you prefer. “

The last two paragraphs accompanied the picture on social media. One of Gail’s best friends was away for two weeks after her death and then my Son was on holiday in Canada when she got back. It meant a long delay in the funeral process – one that didn’t do me any good – but it was necessary and I’m glad I did it as I did it for Gail not me.

The last paragraph was significant. It’ s still not something I’ve come to terms with a year later and something I am unlikely to ever get peace from.

Gail’s death certificate stated she died from multiple organ failure and liver cirrhosis with the liver disease caused by alcohol. Nowhere does it say she drunk to ease the pain from the inflammation in her joints caused by Lupus. It would never say that. As the hospital kept telling me – though I already knew – she didn’t die from Lupus. But there’s the rub. No-one ever does. The bloody disease just takes people out and nobody knows about it or funds ways of investigating it because it never appears on any death certificates. It’s the ultimate silent killer.

OK So I’ve just returned from Tesco with £50 of cleaning products. Think I may need some help here later – and I don’t mean with the cleaning!

Another sign of the maniacal things that overtake you as you try to make things ‘ordinary’. You never can, of course, but that doesn’t stop you. As I write this I still haven’t stopped cleaning and sorting. A friend’s post below the original Facebook entry told how, when his father died, he had spent two days mowing his and all his neighbour’s lawns.

Welcome to the grief bit that no-one talks about.

I was sorting through some of Lady B’s records and found this. I’d completely forgotten I had it. Thanks Pet, it’s going up on the wall.

(Lady Blagg or Lady B was one of various names Gail adopted over our years together, she could often adopt a sort of royal demeanour so it seemed strangely appropriate to use when she was putting on some airs and graces.

Normally, I always called her affectionately ‘Pet’ due to her North East roots.)

It’s absolutely staggering how things you have tucked away, put out of sight and stored somewhere take on a huge and significant meaning after you lose someone. I mean, this present… it’s a really, really lovely thing. I know I thanked her when she gave it too me but I was nowhere near as effusive enough. What was it doing being tucked away with other records? It was in a frame ffs! Why wasn’t it on a wall like it is now? I’m glad it’s now being displayed in a manner that befits the thought behind it but…why oh why oh why did I wait so long? The doubly frustrating aspect of this is now not only a reminder of Gail and a love lost but also of how much of an arse I could and can be sometimes.

You wake up in the morning and, just for a just a few seconds it’s another day. Then you remember days are never going to be the same again.

This should be just shooting fish in a barrel. Of course, your kids are funny, brilliant, wise and you’d jump in front of a bullet for them.

But these last two days, my kids Natalie and Michael have staggered me with their compassion, understanding and love. Mike has been with me today and has cleared out a room that I have been trying to tidy up since Gail decided to empty her wardrobes out well over a month ago. Everything bagged, stacked in a cupboard and co-ordinated. I was breathless at how he did it.

Natalie already saved me on Sunday just by being there, but is now coming over to sort out Gail’s eBay passion (15 things I can’t even open! ) and make sure I have access to all her media accounts. 

Quite how this idiot here managed to produce two such clever, talented and uniquely individual people is completely beyond me. So lucky.