Thirteen

 We used to live at number 13. That's not quite true though, is it? We lived at 11A, because 13 is unlucky. And you wouldn't want to be unlucky, would you? I was only ever lucky. Lucky to have met you. Lucky to have loved you. Lucky to have had the time together we had. 

I'm still lucky. A lot's happened in the the last 13 years, a lot of it painful and difficult and hard, but I'm still here. Fatter, my hair whiter but still, miraculously, in place. I write books now, and people publish them. I've directed films. I once starred in an advert for the Belfast Service Industry, which saw me eat a cold steak in the restaurant of the Europa, in a rented suit. You'd have liked that. It was ridiculous. The producer couldn't believe I didn't own a suit. What sort of Bohemian garret-creeper was he dealing with? Luckily, if you put me in a rented suit, flatten down my hair, I really do look like a middle-aged English businessman looking for the craic in Belfast (we filmed a scene in the Crown too - it was an imaginative affair.) I didn't work on the script, which consisted of me being handed a succession of treats and saying "Thank you very much." Best job I've ever had, apart from the topless scene.

Why am I telling you all this nonsense. It's a kind of amuse bouche for tomorrow's graveside monologue. The lilies are in a vase next to me. They smell beautiful.