Be still, you beating, fearful hearts.  Not my last words, thank goodness, but, just this once, someone else’s.  Yesterday I went to not one but two farewell events.  The first, in my role as Head of Empathy (Oh do stop sniggering at the back.  I didn’t notice your name on the application list.) was to bid a happy retirement to one of the nicest women on the planet, without whose support and encouragement I would have retired myself long since, into a corner, sucking on a blanket.  Possibly in the dark.  She would be surprised to know that but never underestimate the influence of your kindness on others, which she undoubtedly does.

The second occasion was a funeral, not you might think the happiest of subjects for a Christmas blog but, as that say at call centres, ‘Bear with me’.  The star of this show, as he had been the leading light of his own extremely long life, was the best example of ,pardon the pun, a dying breed – the totally bonkers English eccentric.  Tales of his extraordinary doings went back to when he was a five year old in China and had been reported to his parents for dangerous sailing.  Those were the days!  I bet he wasn’t even wearing a life jacket.  Or sun screen.

His life appears to have continued in exactly the same way for over another eighty years.  In his final year, knowing that time was running out, he was still gallivanting about the globe, visiting ever more remote islands, perhaps in the hope that he would finally meet someone who hadn’t already heard his latest dreadful joke.* Singular.  He was a thrifty man.

Funerals of the very elderly can be ill-attended affairs but not this one.  It was a mark of the man that the church was packed to the rafters with people of every age.  Top of the billing must go to his son who brought the house down with his eulogy, a brilliant word picture of a father like no other.  There wasn’t a dry eye in the house but we were crying with laughter.  What a legacy to have left such wonderful children.

We left the church as a photograph of him was projected onto a screen, taken on a glorious summer day in his garden  as he walked away from the camera in a battered sunhat, his ancient dog on a makeshift lead.  And to the sound of Rod Stewart singing, what else, ‘I am sailing’.  Bon voyage to an exceptional man.

*His joke, which his wife sent me when when I was in hospital, went as follows:

Horse, to the one legged jockey, ‘How are you getting on?’.  What a missed opportunity for a career in a Christmas cracker factory.

How many times have I started this blog with the word ‘Thank God that’s all over’, often on December 27th?  Now two major unpleasant events are behind me; the operation and the election.

Years of training mean that I have developed a Pavlovian reaction to the latter and find myself incapable of sleeping through it.  I spent the night switching between the ITV and BBC television coverage with Radio 4 on in the background although there should really have been a major spoiler alert when the exit poll was revealed.  The only way back from that, in terms of entertainment, would have been for it to be hopelessly, comedically wrong but it wasn’t.

Cut to six hours of talking heads.  Alan Johnson was a highlight, spilling forth every thought he had ever had about Mr Corbyn and his policies, something he had clearly been longing to do for years.  (There seemed to be no shortage of Labour politicians willing to do that.  Now.).  A welcome sight was Robert Peston, there as the thinking woman’s crumpet in contrast to Andrew Neil who should really, really think about a future in radio.

Whatever you personally think of the result, and I certainly won’t bore you with my thoughts, it lifted the spirits to discover that although our country has changed beyond recognition in the last fifty years, it is still impossible to sell extremism, be it right or left wing, to the Ordinary British.  We remain, it seems, creatures of the central path, don’t mind if I do, it’s turned out nice again, shall I put the kettle on, and thank God for it.  It is what makes us the best place on Earth, except for the weather.  Obvs.

Finally re-joining fashionable society, I was out and about yesterday, lunching with the Humble Little Sisters of Strawberry and at a carol service later, talking to an Italian banker, who one might assume was against Brexit but not a bit of it.  The only thing he was opposed to was the dithering and he was extremely happy that the way forward was now certain.  As is the rest of the world if one can judge by how the pound strengthened in response to the news.  I asked him to comment on a friend’s fears that it was about to go horribly wrong, there would be shortages and  food riots within weeks.  Ever the perfect gentleman he replied in Italian but I think it translated as poppycock or something similar.

So pause for a minute, gentle reader, whether you like it or not we are finally back on terra firma and we can take a moment, or a fortnight, to relax and enjoy the festive season.  I certainly intend to make the most of a festival I came all too close to missing.   Happy, happy Christmas everyone.