My mother died 14 years ago, aged 53, of ovarian cancer. She had been diagnosed five years before ... but to be truthful the cancer had probably been there since her early forties, when she was a similar age to me. For a year or two they had said she was peri-menopausal and by the time they realised the real problem, and operated, the tumour was the size of a melon.
I wore a pillar box red jacket to my mother’s funeral. I wasn’t being disrespectful. My mother didn’t like black. I don’t remember her ever wearing anything black. Black doesn’t suit me ... and it probably didn’t suit her. She liked red ... she liked the red jacket ... so I wore that.
I remember the cortege pulling up outside the crematorium, and as I opened the car door and climb out I heard someone say “There’s Sylvie”. It was odd thing for someone to say. Sylvia was my mother. Obviously, they weren’t talking about her ... they were referring to me... and how much I looked like her.
I must admit ... click here
