We had my mother's funeral five days ago, a sun-drenched music-filled celebration of her life, with one last ride up the Grand Canal, and one final, obligatory brush with bureaucracy at the very threshold of the crematorium. She would have loved every minute of it.
So many people rolled up their sleeves to make it happen: Paul, who came to Venice for a holiday and ended up playing the organ; Dale who sang a sublime Ave Maria; Michelle who flew in the night before with a suitcase full of curry ingredients and gave us all lunch; and all those friends who turned up in their summer finery and sang their socks off. Thank you, thank you, thank you.
Now Mr F and I are taking off for a couple of weeks, to Cornwall, in search of crashing surf and crab sandwiches. I'm going to read some Daphne du Maurier and do some thinking. Also, if the weather forecast is anything to go by, I'm going to get rained on. No matter. I just packed my chubby little telescopic umbrella.
'I'm Thinking in the Rain, Just Thinking in the Rain...'
I leave my blog in the trustworthy hands of the Heir Apparent, Alastair Graham. Right now he's busy rinsing Glastonbury mud out of his orifices but he tells me he should be fit to post by next week.
Hasta luega, amigos.