Yesterday I was back in my old stamping ground, conducting the funeral of a friend who lived there, but who I met as a result of our cancer diagnoses after I'd left there.

I arrived at Bretby crematorium to be greeted by one of the undertakers who said, "Dave is looking for you".  Who is Dave, I thought, and then he appeared - the guy who does "front of house", who I hadn't seen for over five years, and who greeted me as if it was five weeks, seemingly not noticing the short hair instead of long.  It was odd, but nice, and helped me relax a bit.

As I stood at the door under the canopy waiting for the hearse to arrive, I found myself recalling the last time I'd stood there, and that I had never expected to be there again.  Very surreal.

Little had changed, the huge 200-ish seater chapel was full of people who had come to say farewell to a woman in her mid-forties.  Some I knew, most I did not.  The singing was pretty good (her relatives are mostly Catholics from an area where Catholics sing lustily), the visual tribute (photos set to music, a new development sinece I was last there) tasteful and moving, and my bits were well received.

I got home whacked, physically tired from the travel, emotionally drained by the event, and without the opportunity for my own "post funeral rituals" which involve scruffy jeans, a huge mug of tea and an hour's walk.

Today, back on home turf, reminded of some regional differences of funeral customs, and with a full load of important work to be done, I am reminded that ministry is never what you expect and always more rewarding and more frustrating than you could imagine!

Now, as my kittens (cats) start to settle in to their new home, and explore the limited space they have been introduced to, I have my scruffs on, will make a cuppa and finally get my own ritualised release.