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The soothing dullness of the prosaic

First up thanks to all for kind thoughts, words and deeds. It's all much appreciated (though those words do the degree of a appreciation a gross injustice). It's impossible, I feel, to adequately convey a reaction or emotion under this sort of circumstance. One of the reasons I chose not to speak at the funeral is that every sentiment sounds like a Hallmark card, it sticks in my throat, it doesn't seem enough, somehow, and I loathe retreating into the prosaic, the rote, the truism. It seems like I'm doing him down by not coming up with something better.

But hey, truism alert, life goes on.

So it does, this is incontrovertible. Seasons turn yadda yadda yadda. Save it for the film of the book of the film if you please, doubtless the heroine will love again, her boyfriend from the first scene's still bleeding dead though, isn't he? So no "moving on" (appalling phrase) is something I don't see occuring any time soon.

But, but, see above. Life goes on. yes it does, of course it does. Grieving doesn't pay the bills. So thank the deity of your choice that as a repressed Briton I get to sublimate everything into work. Huzzah! Scrub them pans, bake them scones, dish up them fritattas. Ponder the mysteries of life (such as where the fuck has everyone in Ormskirk gone? seriously, the place is deserted, shopkeepers meet each other's worried glances as they peer out of doors scanning the deserted streets, it's freaky, I tell's ya), do your bit, come home, try to be a nice guy. And it does get marginally easier to do so each day. Another hundred-odd customers would be nice, though; much easier not to think when you're getting battered.

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