My first ever post as an online blogger!

Last Monday, 29th September 2008, I went to my first ever funeral, for the parent of a friend of mine. I found the experience to be far more emotional than I had initially expected it to be. On my way home on the train, I decided to try to collect my thoughts by putting them into writing, which I have reproduced in part below. Various details have been changed in order to ensure the anonymity of my friends.

I went to my first funeral today, for Maria Smith, mother of Angela, who died on Tuesday 16 September 2008 of breast cancer, the day that I went to Andrew Johnson's house.

When I heard (via text message) from Angela that her mother died, on Monday 22nd September, I decided, almost immediately, that I would attend the funeral, not because I felt a particular desire (if that is the correct word) to attend, but because I hoped that my presence at her mother's funeral would mean a lot to Angela.

I had not anticipated how moving the funeral would be, or how much I would cry. I am not someone who cries very often. I do not know if I cried out of sadness at the death of someone I knew, or because the funeral was a moving experience and because death is sad.

Angela, obviously, was very upset, but I was very impressed by her reading. She almost broke down at the beginning, but managed to keep herself together and read remarkably well. I cannot help but worry about her. She is an exceptionally hard-working, caring girl. I do hope she continues to do what Maria would no doubt have wanted, studying dentistry in Leeds. I say this because Angela will no doubt, now that her mother is gone, feel a duty to look after her grandparents, who live at her home in Brighton. Angela's father lives abroad and they rarely see one another. I hope that she realizes she has people to turn to if she ever feels lost.

I expect that I shall cry at every funeral I ever go to. I have been to plenty of memorial services before - my Grandfather, Tom Gold, Alakh Prakash, Neil Taylor, Mr. Williams - some of whom, arguably, were closer to me than Maria. With the exception of my grandfather's, I did not cry at any of them, and possibly because it was today I would say that Maria's was the saddest.

Angela had asked that no black be worn, as Maria 'would have wanted life to be celebrated rather than mourned.'

Perhaps unsurprisingly, attending my first ever funeral got me thinking about the cheery topic of death. Partly for this reason, I have decided to write a blog about death.