On Friday morning, I arrive at All Saints Church in a Berkshire village, and spot a wooden bench beneath the shade of an oak tree. The scene is picture perfect. A small medieval stone building with a steeple, a weathercock proud at its tip; a quaint path leading from the wooden double doors to a pretty floral arch. Nothing like the church I got dragged to for Sunday morning mass growing up. Even the sky is an idyllic blue. For a moment, I feel like I’m starring in a nineties Britflick.

That moment passes in a flash.

I feel nervous. I feel jittery. I feel numb and I feel pain. I feel such a cocktail of contradicting emotions that I’m dizzy, I’m heavy-headed, I’m scared. I’m not wearing a hat – my roots are now a silvery blonde – but I’m wearing a black cardigan, and black tights beneath my black shift dress. So I’m hot. I’m sweaty. I’m wishing I hadn’t worn shoes with a heel because they’re already hurting, but nothing else I own would’ve been smart enough.

I’m also early.

Well, I’d got myself into a right panic about being late. I mean, I had to take the tube to Paddington, a train to Reading and then a slow train seven stops, followed by a fifteen-minute walk following Google Maps. The conductor on the Reading train had caught my eye and told me to have a nice day. It made me wonder how often people have said this to me on a daily basis and how often I’ve taken all those nice days for granted. I’m not going to have a nice day today.

I sit myself down on the bench, slip my heels off and crack my toes, waiting for Jack’s mourners to arrive. I didn’t even know the location of this place until last night. When Jack’s mum sent that text, I’d replied saying, Thank you, Cx and forgot to ask where the funeral would be. I couldn’t bother her again, could I?

So I turned to Facebook.