Less than three months ago I rode out of Newcastleton, in the back of a hearse, to a graveyard on a hilly field. Lottie's mum was buried here, in the Scottish Borders. Two weeks ago, as the gravestone for Lottie's mother arrived, the lovely old lady next door died quite unexpectedly in hospital, from thrombosis. It came as quite a shock, for Lottie especially, who was cruelly reminded of the still too recent grief. Also of course, as Lottie grew up as her neighbour and loved her as a second mum, she found it very hard to take. Her father, as an executioner of the will, asked Lottie to handle the funeral arrangements. Fair in a way, as he himself would have to come a long way down from Scotland - and had arranged his wife's funeral recently. But Lottie shouldn't have had to do either. I wish I could have done it in her place, but as I hadn't got to know the neighbour anywhere near as well, and certainly not her son either (a friendly 50-odd year old bloke with a mental impediment), I had no place but to support Lottie where I could, instead. As a grimy silver lining to a cloud, the amount of work she had to handle meant she hadn't much time to break down in despair. Especially since, on top of it, her young horse Marik was in hospital for a possibly career-threatening injury to his hocks.

On Friday, the cold but dry weather suited the funeral. The mass, at a Roman Catholic church, reminded me of the many masses I visited as a kid accompanying family. I duly folded my hands at the many prayers and psalms, stood up and sat down at a dozen unspoken requests, succeeded in not chuckling when a visiting priest stuttered his way through a prayer.. And generally, I had a suitably sombre expression on my face, with slight relief when holy water was sprinkled but didn't burn on my skin - and no horns grew from my forehead. The only part I had ever looked forward too in my years of following regular church visits was a disappointment though. In the Netherlands, the 'body of Christ' bread was handed to us by one priest, then dipped in the 'blood of Christ' at another priest holding a chalice. Here, only the priest seemed to eat a bit of body, after which the entire congregation drank from the same cup. I remembered each Dutch mass started with expressions of sympathy to a large list of sick people and family of the deceased, it seemed both heretic and grossly unhygienic to follow the Catholics baying for a little blood.

After the service I joined Lottie and others in the hearse, riding out of Swinton, to a crematorium near Heaton Park. Another small service was held, after which a few people saw shades of our deceased neighbour and her predeceased husband dance to Nat King Cole's "Unforgettable". And then the curtains closed.