I remember a time, not too many years ago, when life was fresh and life was born, and decisions were made as to the name of this new baby or that new baby.
Then some time ago the Uncle who, like me, worked with computers - well he passed away as a tumour consumed his mind.
And then the Aunt that enjoyed her cigarettes - she too passed away as the tumour consumed her lungs.
And then the sister of a girlfriend called my number and spoke of death. On this day of days, not more than a couple of years ago, it seemed that all perceptions of life altered, since death can make a mockery of the mockery of life. The girl that drank the wine that destroyed the liver - well, she too was lost to this world. This woman, at fourty three, with her curly blond hair and a genius for art, left us all; and she could have given much that would have been superb, to this world. Today and everyday it pains me knowing this lady died, after everyone had given up on her, completely alone in the dark shadows and the cold winds of grave despair.
Then the wife of the Grandad passed away as the tumours consumed her bones. Auntie Bee she was called. This woman was in a class of her own. I would have rather eaten at her table than at the Queen's own table given the choice. But it's true the Queen won't be inviting a homeless gypsy like me to her table.
Last week the Grandad himself died also. This seems hardly possible for the great old man was never supposed to have left his post. He was the Grandad - and none of us would ever have given him permission not to be the Grandad.
Thus here I am in my fourth decade knowing that people will be born and will learn to walk and learn to talk, and a few score years later, will fail to walk and will fail to talk. And it is true the Nomad is one for travelling, but some trips he would rather not have to complete. Tomorrow's trip - the funeral of the Grandad in West London, is one such trip I would rather not be required to make.