Immodestly, I have long considered myself to be good with words, able to conjure up something funny, pithy or moving when called upon to do so. But I have never had a clue what to write on those little cards accompanying flowers for funerals. I was 20 when my grandad died. His was the first funeral of a close family member I’d attended. My mum gave me one of those little cards and a pen. I looked at her and at the blank card and burst into tears. I tried to write something, failed and cried some more. And then I did write something – “Love you Grandad,” I believe – and this started me off again, because of course these were words that, while sincere, I had never said to him while he walked the earth. Mind you, if I ever had, I expect he would have looked at me quizzically, even alarmed. In retrospect, I wish I had gone for a bit of levity: “Up the Albion!”, or something like that. Either way, it was simply horrifying to be writing the most heartfelt thing I had ever written, to somebody who would never read it. Thirty-five years on, I’m no closer to getting my head around this.
So if I hadn’t had to go for work, I would have steered clear of the floral tribute to the Queen in London’s Green Park. The last time I had seen such a thing was the acre of flowers outside Kensington Palace in the days after the death of Diana, Princess of Wales. One message I read that day stuck with me. It said: “Rest in peace and God bless you, Diana.” And then, apparently as an afterthought: “And Dodi.” And as an afterthought to that: “And driver.”
