Farewells are always hard. The funeral saw the kids come home for a last time, with their Godfather Pete and his wife Nicola, and their little ultra-bright precocious blond daughters (our Godchildren) It was bittersweet. Great to see them all, great to see my six foot tall sons brought under small thumbs and used as jungle-gyms, horses and well-trained mixtures between x-boxes and wii s with FAR more features. Sad because they all love Finnegan's Wake (the farm) and it is full of memories for all of them. Of course the emotion and remembering of my mother's funeral woven into it all made it more poignant. My son Paddy and his cousin KC gave a great Eulogy, fitting of my mum. It was a brave and hard thing that they volunteered to do.
Anyway... last night I had what can only be called a nightmare. We were camped at the coast with an unfamiliar party. My son James and I had gone for a walk along the cliffs - too stormswept and wild to fish. We returned to camp to find it all neatly packed up into into many, many depressing square canvas wrapped parcels - anonymous ones that could have had anything in them. And the keys for the vehicle - which we needed to get home in - were NOT in my pocket... but presumably in one or other of the parcels.
I hope this is not my subconcious giving me nasty messages!
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