You Would Not Have Known From My Instagram

Photo by Ambitious Studio* | Rick Barrett on Unsplash

You would not have known from my Instagram that we buried my Uncle George on 4 January, that there was a funeral and a committal and my husband refused to meet my eye during the service and I had to wait until the journey from the church to the cemetery to say that I felt like I was in an episode of The Vicar of Dibley.

I’d comforted myself with the fact that George would have howled at the comedy of his own send-off, at the elderly choir members helping each other into the chancel, at the nonagenarian organist who may or may not have nodded off between the first and second hymns, at the minister emulating Rowan Atkinson with words not necessarily in the right order, and at his assistant, who appeared to be delivering his own eulogy. He’d never met George but really wished he had. But, I’d been so proud of my cousin John because public speaking wasn’t his thing and he’d given everyone a lesson on how to do it by unfolding his piece of paper slowly and composing himself before summarising his dad in less than five minutes and for the rest of the day, we’d think of George who loved to travel, George the headmaster, George who only took twelve years to get there but finally got his PhD as he approached his 79^th birthday, George who liked nothing more than a Scotch in front of the TV whilst shouting instructions at the Irish rugby team, George who had been married for 65 years, George who always doubled over with laughter as he told a joke because he was already anticipating the punchline, George, who even though he had no particular religious inclinations, had learned just like the apostle Paul, the secret of being content in any and every situation.

And later in a church hall, Philip, the son of one of George’s closest friends, would say to me that the best eulogies are the ones where you are reminded of something you did know about someone and where you learn something you didn’t.

You would not have known from my Instagram that I keep my mobile permanently on silent and that I was in someone else’s living room on New Year’s Eve and had just finished a glass of champagne when I noticed two missed calls and a voicemail from my mother. And as I was pondering whether this could be a handbag dial, I’d heard my husband’s phone ring and I’d watched him as he listened, and I knew it wasn’t good. And my mother asked if I could come immediately because my dad was terribly upset, and their grandchild drove me there, and I told her not to come in because I wanted to spare her from this until she was older, and I discovered no one ever gives you the skills to comfort your 84-year-old father who has unexpectedly lost his 88-year-old brother.

And Philip said to me, “it’s almost imperceptible, you know, that shift, that moment when you realise the child has become the parent”. He was with his 87-year-old mum Nancy and there was nowhere else they would have wanted to be, he said, because even though he wasn’t a real one, George was like an uncle to him. And we chatted about varifocals and icy pavements and an infamous road safety advert called ‘Shame’ that his real uncle had appeared as an extra in. And we talked about Nancy who could not be put off getting a new puppy and now everyone else was walking and training it because she had issues with her balance. And I said to her, “what’s it called?” and her face shone with love. “Daisy,” she said. “She’s wonderful company in the evenings”.

And by the time I left Philip, who I was glad I’d shared an uncle with, I realised I’d given my cousin John at least three hugs because even though we’d never done affection before, his sister was 7000 miles away and someone had to tell her, and no one ever gives you the skills to do that. Later, I’d consider how there was just under nine months between us, how one November, he became the first grandson and the following July, I, the fifth granddaughter. And he had four Christian names when the girls only had two because the boy had to be named after all the men who had come before. And I thought what a weight he’d had to carry.

You would not have known from my Instagram that on the first morning of 2025, after I peeled shallots and potatoes, set the slow cooker on high for eight hours and added a couple of pounds of beef and a variety of spices, I collected my dad, and we went to visit his sister-in-law who had suddenly become a widow. She kept lifting George’s glasses and realising they weren’t her’s, and moving his things off chairs, but she’d stayed on her own, she said, because she had to get used to that, and she had Lola, her Jack Russell, who refused to leave her side. And we went into the kitchen, all three of us, and we tried to make a cup of tea and neither of us humans knew where anything was and I opened cupboards and drawers and found mugs and teabags and a tray to set it all on and then she said, “I’m kind of hungry” like it was a surprise and so I cut some Madeira into thin slices and I watched her eat it. And a few days later, on a screen, I watched another widow, who is carrying on the legacy of her husband by encouraging people to make balanced food choices, and she was cooking a chorizo omelette¹ on live television. And it seemed in the midst of all the grief, there could still be eating. And I remembered I’d shared some advice on Instagram for 2025. “One cannot think well, love well, sleep well, if one has not dined well,” Virginia Woolf had said. And the next day, I posted a photo of the slow-cooked beef stifado I’d made for my family.

You would know from my Instagram that my dad had a poem about first-footers published in a national newspaper. You would not know that he wished he could have given his brother a copy. You would know that I am eating. You would not know that I am keeping a food diary, and that I want to make balanced choices and I have a notebook which sits on the worktop, and it would be much easier to not eat than record this level of detail, and I am describing everything as small and for the purposes of the notebook, I am only consuming small pieces of toast and small bowls of pasta and small plates of salad. You would know that I am planning a trip to Marrakech. You would not know that I am grieving.

And when she wrote an online tribute, my aunt said, “He never promised me a rose garden but what he gave me was so much better. Thank you darling for the life, love and laughter we shared”.

You would know from my Instagram that the Christmas jigsaw never got finished. You would not know that January has brought challenges and that I am questioning whether to keep my iPhone on silent because I am afraid of missing the next shock that might come, or of not being available as soon as I am needed. You would know that I have seen a lot of films recently. You would not know that my husband and I both have omnipasses, and we book our individual cinema seats on our separate devices at the same time, so we ensure we are beside each other. You would know that my husband often eats with me. You would not know that we always discuss our daily plans and as much as possible, aim to eat lunch together. And when our daughter overheard our scheduling conversation, she said, “crazy life you two lead”.

And I thought about my Uncle George and how he didn’t need to lead a crazy life. All he needed was one filled with love and laughter and maybe the odd whisky.

1. Omelette.