More of those mysterious coincidences that you hang onto. Some people read more into this than I do, I just recount them here because they are an important part of the grief process.

We have four cats; Morris, Buzz, Gus and Ziggy. The first three are pure black cats, the latter a grey British Shorthair. We had one previous cat named simply Puss-Puss who had arrived at our old home in strange circumstances. At the time I was highly allergic to cats and, in fact, Gail had to give away her pets when we moved in together. Something which, incidentally, didn’t seem much to me at the time but which took on greater significance later in our relationship. In fact, giving her beloved cats up to live with me must have been enormously difficult for her and it’s not something I would do now for anyone.

Puss-Puss subsequently bought another cat back to live with us – again odd circumstances, but something to which Gail put more significance on than I did – we became, astonishingly considering my health issues previously, a two-cat family. For when Puss sadly died from old age, a small cats home had sprung up in an attempt to replace him and, by July 2019, we had the aforementioned four cats.

Anyway, with the weather in Britain glorious all summer I had the back patio doors opened when the following occurred.

Beware everyone! I’m about to become one of those social media loonies

When Puss-Puss turned up in what was admittedly very strange circumstances (too long to relate here) in 2000, Gail always insisted he was sent by her Mum who had passed away earlier that year. When Puss-Puss brought Morris back – in more odd circumstances – when we moved to Colchester, Gail insisted it was her Grandfather who had died a few months before. I should add that at this I usually rolled my eyes and went somewhere quiet.

I was sitting downstairs today when Buzz started howling at Morris sitting on the floor in front of me. “What you doing Buzz? It’s only Morris” I said. Then I realised Morris was on an adjacent chair and so was Gus. A quick head count revealed I had four black cats in front of me instead of the requisite three I own.

I’ve fed the stranger, had a far-too-early stiff drink and gone to lie down as I’m starting to feel very odd.

Puffy, as I was to learn later, became a frequent visitor over the coming months.

My Eulogy for Gail. I needed to tell our story and I needed to tell why Gail was so pivotal in my life. I asked for a full ten minutes in the ceremony and I think the Humanist was only too happy to let me have it. I understand not many want, or can, speak about their loved ones at the funeral and I think it made her job so much easier. I had to do it though. It wasn’t a case of ‘Can I do this?’ (although I did wonder briefly), it was more a case of ‘I must do this’. There was no option. I needed everyone there – and whoever else visits the website – to know what Gail meant to me. I’m not someone who is good at self-promoting – even when I had my book published it was Gail who told everyone – but this is the one thing I’m enormously proud of. I told ‘Us’ in ten minutes. I know Gail would have loved it.

(Preface) Many of you will know that – thanks to Gail who gave me confidence where there was none – I have been an IT Trainer for the past fifteen years. I am used to standing in front of large groups of people and speaking, often unscripted, sometimes for several hours.

However, nothing I have done in the past fifteen years has prepared me for today. And so, against my better judgement, and because I need to do this not only for Gail but also myself, I have decided to write this out and read it.

I know it often sounds odd reading out the written word, but I hope it won’t sound too stilted. If it does, I hope you will bear with me.

(Start proper) Regardless of your religious, spiritual or scientific beliefs, at a time like this, when we’re all trying to make sense of something that makes no sense,  you might find solace in Gail’s first words to me. Like Gail herself, they are probably pretty unique.

I first spoke to Gail when she rung me at work. She’d started a new job in High Wycombe and was chasing leads, cold-calling companies with a five-minute introductory call about herself, her company and the services she provided. And – yes! – We did have a laugh later about some of the services she provided for me over the years. For those of you who didn’t know Gail before her illness, she was a superb and hard-working sales person. She’d made many dozens of calls before she rung me and made dozens more after; they’d all lasted about five minutes, some shorter, few longer. Ours lasted 45 minutes. Years after we couldn’t actually remember what we had spoken about. We just remembered that we felt instantly at ease, sensed a rapport but, more importantly, felt that something odd had occurred.

Gail rang me again a couple of weeks after. A follow-up call supposed to last another five minutes, this one lasted an hour. Over the coming weeks, the calls got longer and the time in-between shorter until two things happened. Firstly, BT’s shareholders threw a party; secondly – after a full seven months – we decided to meet. Even so, this first meeting wasn’t quite how it sounds.

Incredible to think back then, there was no internet, social media or mobile phones. We had no idea what each other looked like. This though was no blind date – neither of us was in a position for that anyway – instead it had the feel of a slightly surreal business meeting.

In fact, we only met because Gail’s Mum Denise had come down from the North-East and was staying with Gail for the week. She wanted to see a bit of London, was in the area I worked in and so, with Mum in tow, we decided it would be a good time to meet and, we both thought, put an end to all the nonsense.

You see, it was apparent from our conversations that we had absolutely nothing in common. We didn’t like the same music, books, TV shows, we didn’t enjoy the same things and, more importantly, we were entirely different people, Gail was gregarious, fun, chatty and – let’s be honest here – needed to carry a big stick with her at all times to fend off the attention of the opposite sex. Something incidentally, she still needed 30 years later. Me? Well… not so much….

My idea certainly was we’d meet; Gail would see who’d she had been talking to all this time, we’d laugh and then move on.

After I’d left them following our meeting, Denise – bless her! – summed the reality of the situation up as only a Mother can with just two words. She told Gail simply ‘Be Careful’. Gail wasn’t, I wasn’t …and, astonishing though it is to consider it, every one of us is here today as a direct result.  

By the way, don’t bother ringing Match.com to suggest the idea of a solid, hedonistic, loving relationship based on having absolutely nothing in common. I’ve already done it; they weren’t interested.

One thing I quickly learned in those opening conversations was that the name Gail doesn’t lend itself to someone with an East End accent. That harsh A sound just doesn’t sound right and, as it turns out, sounded even worse as we subsequently settled in Essex. With deference to my In-Laws who’ve travelled from Newcastle to the Deep South to be with us today, the softer A of the North East – Gail (Geordie) – sounds much nicer. I did try the cod Geordie for a while but then dropped it in favour of just saying ‘Eeeee Pet’ whenever I answered Gail’s calls. Eventually I dropped that too and Gail just became ‘Pet’ and later when we moved in together ‘My Pet’. All our cards to each other are signed that way and that was the name I called her all the time. Like an errant child she only became Gail when she was annoying me or spending too much money – which to be fair was quite often!

It’s been lovely to see so many people here today and to hear your thoughts on Gail and what she meant to you. But, for me, though I knew that Gail and enjoyed her company, we worked in a different way and that way just involved the two of us. It’s hard to describe here as often we were in our own bubble that made others uncomfortable; there wasn’t words, it’s like the air crackled between us and we instinctively knew what the other was thinking. We’d just look at each other and laugh because we knew the other knew what was happening. Gail did like her nights out but she liked being home the best and she told me this on many occasions.

So, if you’ll excuse me, it’s that Gail I’d like to speak too now.

(Address Gail directly)

So, Pet

Firstly, just to tell you that I am absolutely bereft and missing you so much. I’m trying to keep myself busy so I don’t get the chance to stop and think.

I had the downstairs toilet decorated as you wanted. That sparkly mirror I said was going up ‘over my dead body’ is up. I don’t see I’ve much to lose and, frankly, I need more sparkly mirrors in my life right now.

It was nice to have you home last night. I can’t remember a time when I said so much and you didn’t say anything in reply. The cats loved you being there though. Morris, Buzz, Gus and Ziggy thought I’d got them a new scratch post. Buzz, Mummy’s boy, slept on you. I know you’d have liked that. They’ve left a little black cat stamp on the end of your pink coffin.

I want you to know I’ve lit a candle for you every night since you went. You’ve left me about eighty of the bloody things so I may as well do something with them.

I thank you also for the 20 odd bottles of fake tan. You always said I’d have no style if you weren’t around to buy my clothes – but, hey! Check out the pink waistcoat and tie – so I’m taking this as a sign and I’ve decided on the Romesh Raganathan look for the next couple of years.

I’m sorry I let you down at the end. Everyone is saying I did my best but we both know I didn’t. I’m sorry I was just so tired and the drive back to Cambridge was long, it was dark, raining and I couldn’t face it. You’d been through so much I thought you’d get through this. I know when I get to the Gates of Hell you’ll probably be there with some sparkly wings and a red diamante trident and – a personal request here – some white thigh boots  and you’ll say to me ‘You useless bastard, you were bloody late again!’

But Pet, whatever my shortcomings – and there are many I know – I hope I gave you some sort of life. You used to say I did, but I’m just sorry I couldn’t stop the pain you were in for virtually all the time we knew each other. I’d do anything to have you back, but I’m grateful that at last you’re not in pain.

You were my inspiration: Without you, I’d not have been able to do the job I do now or – the irony lost on no-one – stand here like I am now. You told me I could do it and you gave me the confidence to believe in myself.

It was also you that gave me my second career as a freelance writer. You gave me the concept, even the name and started my alter ego for me. If anything can come out of this awful time, I think perhaps I’ve now got my subject for my second book.

My gorgeous Pet: Beautiful, Stylish, Inspirational, Funny, Smart, Sexy, Insightful, Elegant, Infuriating, Illogical, Vibrant, Intuitive, Short-tempered. You could be wonderful or you could be a pain but, either way, you were my Mrs T, my Lady Blagg and you were my pain and I love you for it.

When I said I loved you, you always said ‘How Much?’ and I had to answer ‘to the ends of the universe and back’. You’d say AND? So I could say ‘times the end of the universe and back again’. That’s not changed. That won’t ever change.

Your last words to me were ‘I Love You’ and my last words to you were ‘I Love You’ and I guess that’s about as good as it gets. So I should say ‘Goodbye’ here but….

(Address back to the rest )

Those first words? Years after, when I asked Gail why she’d said this, she didn’t realise at first she had said it, she most certainly did though and when I reminded her, she then couldn’t explain it except to say ‘It was like I knew you already’.

Don’t forget we’d never spoken before or even knew of each other’s existence. The phone rang, I picked it up, said Hello and Gail said “Hello……… it’s me again“

Perhaps, sometime, somewhere, me – or at least other parallel version of me – will have that happen again.

I can only hope so.