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.
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.
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.
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!
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
you’ll excuse me, it’s that Gail I’d like to speak too now.
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!’
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
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.
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….
back to the rest )
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’.
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“
sometime, somewhere, me – or at least other parallel version of me – will have that
I can only hope