Days drift by in Newcastle. It's strange to think that my dad's body is lying less than half a mile away, in a cold morge on the other side of the Dene almost directly across from this house. Everybody is busy with the preparations required. Chosing the coffin. Catering. Buying in the booze. Arranging the order of service. Who will speak... what will be said. Writing a letter for my Dad to become ash with him...also a poem by Dylan Thomas. It's a mental conjuring trick... it diverts your attention.

7th December arrives. I wake up before dawn with tension in my guts. I've not seen my Dad since before he died and at 1pm his body will be outside the house. I sit around and drink a lot of coffee. AKR, my sister, busies herself putting up photographs of dad on the wall of the lounge. Mum prepares the house for the Wake, the caterers arrive. I head up to Kitschen to collect an enormous chocolate cake, baked by Sam. She hands it over with tears in her eyes. Leaving the cafe a woman see's me carrying the large white cake box and smiles at me, "Having a birthday?!" she beams. I return the smile with a wry edge, "Err, no, my Dad's funeral." It's a surreal moment.

I drink more coffee. A card arrives for me in the post. It's from Niall Patterson, I've not seen him in years, how did he know about my Dad? Around 11 o'clock I head upstairs and put on my dark suit, white shirt and one of my Dad's black ties. Coming downstairs I step into the lounge and everybody slows what they're doing, brains registering the fact that it has actually begun.

I go for a walk to the entrance of the Dene with my Norweigan cousin, Kenn-Ole. He lived with my parents for four years in the early 70's whilst studying in Newcastle. We come back and there are more people in the house. Mum comes downstairs... she looks amazing. A black silk hood embracing the back of her head... strong green-blue eyes looking back at me above a brave smile. Everyone is in black. Ciaran arrives, and there is Alex M... I've not seen him in 6 years... all three of us are the same age, all of us grew up in this street together. I'm deeply grateful he's made the journey up from London. I tell Ciaran about the card from Niall... Ciaran tells me Niall works in the morgue... saw the name tag...

The sky switches from colbalt blue to sombre grey. It spits icy rain. I think I'm downstairs when Dad's body arrives. I can remember being by the downstairs hallway window, I can see the glossy black paintjob with chrome trim, spotless glass panes, the coffin and heaps of flowers. The coffin, the coffin, the coffin... that's my Dad inside. My eyes are scanning the shape of it. Working out the head-end from the feet-end. A limo pulls up behind. More glossy black. Strange men with solemn faces climb out and stand around. The rain comes down harder.

I open the front door. One of the men peels away and approaches me, opening an umbrella without a word... he turns on his heel keeping the umbrella above me and follows me up the drive.

I stop by the hearse. I want to say "hello dad" but my voice is crushed by emotion. The tears come. I try to fight them back but it's utterly impossible. My body rocks forward, my lungs explode air in a single sob, tears flow freely... I'm trembling and clenching my fists... I barely keep it under control.

A figure steps near me. It's Alex. He comes forward and opens his arms. Hug. Long and meaningful. I turn away. There are other people around me. Les, from next door, he looks haunted. It really strikes me. He looks so terribly sad.

My family get into the limo. Silent men in dark overcoats holding open doors. I climb into the front passenger seat. The hearse pulls away. Slow, diginified. The limo driver follows.

It's a powerful journey. Maybe 15 minutes? Slow... serene... I'm visualising my Dad ahead of me, his head would be by the rear window of the hearse lying on his back, looking up at the sky... we drive through heavy traffic, through urban streets... the living carrying on with thier lives... we drive past the Town Moor. I remember my Dad driving me here with Niall Patterson when we were only 11, he would drop us off with a thermos of hot Oxo... Niall and I used to clamber up to the top of the Moor with binoculars and watch for UFO's.

The hearse pulls into the crematorium and we follow right behind. There are several long moments where nothing happens. I see the curate stepping outside, gusts of wind tugging at his white vestments, a bible clutched between his hands. The windscreen wipers are lurching back and forward, throwing off the rain. My vision is blurring up with tears. People are arriving. Gathering near the entrance to the crematorium. I'm staring at the coffin...I can see my Dad.

I'm out the limo. Holding hands with mum. Walking past a line of people, guided into the chapel by John, a lovely silver haired man, the Undertaker. I find my seat at the front row. Then step away and start heading back up the aisle, threading my way through the people coming in. Alex has seen me and is standing like a rock in the slow tide of people. I make eye contact and he knows what I want him to help me do. He turns and follows beside me. Ciaran is by the entrance, watching us, I meet his eyes and its the same wordless communication. He joins us. We step out into the rain. Five pall-bearers are standing by the back of the open hearse. They see the three of us approaching an instantly peel back. One of them points at a colleague and simply says, "You're about the same height," and so he is selected to be the 4th man. This is the man who is across from me as we slide the coffin out. Ciaran and Alex take the bottom end. We get used to the weight and then heft it onto our shoulders. "Left foot first," we're told, "Just walk normally."

There's a moment when we're waiting to enter. Dad is on my left shoulder. I tilt my head inwards and press my face against the wood of the coffin. I close my eyes and imagine me pressing my face to his... "Goodbye Dad. I love you."

We're moving. We're stepping into the chapel. There's a curtained area... the curtains are open and the shelf has rollers on to help you slide the coffin into place. I step away. Alex is beside me. I take his hand and give it a grateful squeeze. He's ash-white and trembling. I walk over and stand beside my mum, AKR is on the other side. There's Kenn-Ole and at the end is Jo. The curate begins speaking. There's a portrait of Dad beside the coffin. My legs are shaking. Everything is being experienced through a filter... I suck in a sob, it seems to boom within the enclosed chapel... I struggle to find a tissue... we're singing a hymn, my eyes blur up...

We sit. Neville Wanless comes forward and gives tribute... he grew up with my Dad. My sister comes forward and speaks without breaking down... I stare at the potrait of my Dad. My sister returns to her seat. Glen Miller: Moonlight Serenade starts to play. Wow... what a fabulous piece of music. I'm transported back in time. My Dad as a young man, just after the War...

...the curate talks... Jo reads from the bible... I don't hear the words but I know Dad would have liked what was read... the curate speaks... he gives the prayer of commendation and committal... the curtains close on the coffin... my mother sobs and squeezes my hand... then Adagio - Albinoni starts to drift sweetly into the chamber and the music lifts my spirit for a few moments. The undertaker appears by my side and prompts me to head to the front entrance, I let my mum and sister go first. Tears run down my face as a I leave. We stop in the doorway. People start streaming past, shaking my hand or kissing my cheek. "You won't remember me but you used to sleep under my desk in your father's office", "You won't remember me but your father got my business started". George Mutch was there, a businessman who had lunch with my Dad in the Corner House pub for several decades. I pumped his hand.

I feel amazing. I feel so happy. It was such an incredible service. I couldn't have wished for better. The limo drives us home. People start arriving. There are photos of dad all over the walls. We drink and talk and celebrate the life that was. Not the man dying in hospital, but the life and soul of the parties that have been and gone, the practical joker, my father, my God for a while...

I think the last people left around 2 A.M. It ended with me and Pete sitting across a small table from each other, whisky-coke's in hand. It's been good.

The next day the stormy clouds and rain have gone. It's a heavenly blue sky and golden sunlight. Kenn-Ole and I take a walk through the Dene.

We return to the crematorium. John, the undertaker is there, his silver hair gleaming, immaculately dressed, grey and serene eyes twinkling with an empathy that allows him to be dignified and yet able to display a quick smile at our moments of good humour.

John leads us out onto the Garden of Rememberance. He's carrying a beautiful brass urn. I like John. I'm happy that's he's managing this whole process. He asks where we would like the ashes scattered. I point at an area where the sun is streaming through the trees. He bends down and pulls a handle... a fine grey dust mixed with heavier particles begins to fall in a hazy shower. He moves his hand back and forth... covering a large area of grass. A breeze carries some of the ash away... sparkling in the sunlight... it's beautiful... my mum whispers "Goodbye Glen" and the finality of that stabs me through my heart...

I am in Newcastle, with family, with friends... and with the time and space to grieve.