Frank's funeral...

Yesterday I went to Scarborough for the day, not for a donkey ride or fish and chips (although both make an appearance), instead I made the pilgrimage to attend an old friend’s funeral. My first time back in Scarborough since my final day in my old job; it all seems so long ago now. In many ways it was a trip back in time, a trip back to a different version of me; one that’s not around any more.

I don’t hate funerals like so many people seem to. They’re just a necessary part of having been alive, an inevitable end; maybe that’s why they call it a passing. I don’t like them though, and whenever I can I try hard to avoid them. I have a long list of excuses to get me out of attending – ‘I’m in an important meeting’, ‘I’m out of the country’, ‘I’m on a training course’. These days though, none of them really apply, and in Frank’s case I wouldn’t want them to anyway.

I shared a car with two old colleagues, both friends, and as we drove along the M60 I wondered who we were these days – were we Athos, Porthos, and Aramis… or Moe, Larry and Curly… how about Huey, Dewey and Louis? Maybe not; in our dark suits and ties were more like Pavarotti, Domingo and Carreras. Well, I’m almost the size of Pavarotti although I guess I’m more stooge than musketeer these days. Anyway, with the weather and all, maybe we were better off being ducks than tenors.

Scarborough in the drizzle, and as we drove past the buildings where we used to work it wasn’t quite the same. One was empty; the other owned by strangers despite the logo. At a glance, and as we drove past, it seemed that nothing had changed - at a glance, and as we drove past, it seemed that everything had changed. I almost expected to park up, step out of the car, and walk into yet another meeting (three page presentation and all) - only there aren’t any meetings for me any more.

Short of time, we drove through the town and up the hill to Scarborough Crematorium and a thousand memories. So many faces that I’d spent half a life time getting to know; glimpsing them across a black suited room with sombre nods here, a hand gesture there. So much in common with these people, so much less in common these days. No projects, no pipeline, no pagination coats, no white knock out, no Eric, no Clipper, no Freehand 5.5… just a smiling Frank watching us all from his easel; Frank, the reason that we were all there together again.

Death’s a great leveller. All rank and position wiped away, just a group of people gathered on a wet Friday afternoon to say goodbye to a friend.

Back at the cricket club how easily I slipped into the old skin, and for a moment I was almost that other version of me for an hour or two. So this was where Frank came on a Sunday afternoon for a pint. My Sunday afternoon memories of Frank were of the Valley Forge Hilton bar, drinking beer and exchanging tall tales.

We exchanged Frank tales as we drank this beer, no tall ones, there wasn’t any need. Tales about Frank were tall enough without embellishment: “Frank broke the mould”, “Frank loved black shirts so much that he bought three”, “Frank loved to sing.”, “Frank liked a pint”, “Frank loved his family”, “Frank was always talking about ‘our lass”, “Frank loved his cricket”.

Tall tales in the truest  of ways... I didn’t know about the cricket. 

Frank, what a beautiful muddle you were.