I’m in Ottawa at Elder Brother’s house. The burial of Edmund’s ashes at Beechwood yesterday went off without a hitch, complete with bugler and piper, and the sun even came out. SIL No 1 (wife of Little Bro) organized a reception for 50 guests that also went off without a hitch, complete with guitar-violin duo and an open bar. When I’ve paid the bills for that, Op Funeral will be done and dusted. Every member of the extended family who could possibly make it did so, and a very large contingent of serving and retired legal officers showed up, most of them in uniform. On a Saturday. On a holiday weekend.

As Official Chief Mourner, it is my job to embrace suddenly weeping men, and accept beringed handshakes from stoic women who have been where I am (literally as well figuratively in a couple of cases) and know the ground intimately. They stand up straight and look me dead in the eye.

Nephew No 1’s wife is shaping up into a Pushy Stage Mum. Hmmmm.

And my new cat-visitor in Stratford looks like the real deal. She sent me an All’s Well email this morning with a photo of shy, suspicious Isobel on the dining room table, a sight I was sure she would not see for at least a year.

Tomorrow I will spend another long stretch of idle time in the custody of Via Rail, travelling steerage because I am a skinflint. Then I must turn my attention to the choir and its issues, and otherwise get on with life.