My Dad passed away in hospital last week, and we had the funeral yesterday. I think it was worthy of him, although I did unfortunately accidentally say the f word in the middle of it.

Dad requested that my sister and I speak, and she didn’t feel she could, so sure I’ll speak for both of us, and Mum as well. During the arrangements there was talk of a celebrant MCing, and I’m not sure how it happened, but I ended up saying sure, I get up in front of hundreds of people each week and make stuff up without a script, wouldn’t it be better if I did it instead of someone Dad didn’t know. How hard could it be?

So then we got to the music. Oh, I had to do the soundtrack, based on Dad’s wishes, and in consultation with Mum and my sister. Oh, and we need a program, because the funeral directors don’t do that, and the few I’d seen looked like some school kid had done them in Word, pretty amateur, so sure, I’ll professionally do the program as well, nothing but high production quality for Dad.

And you know what, I may as well do the running order and Stage Manage it, considering most of the detail of that was in my hands anyway. Pre-show, intros, cue sheets, it felt like a show. We were running a show, and I would make Dad proud.

So somewhere in there I managed to write my speech as well, not as good as I’d like, I ran out of time, but pretty good I reckon.

I’m not sure what the tradition is, but people were saying afterwards how different the service was, in a good way. I figured it was the obvious to be honest. Four special speakers requested by Dad, including myself, and then intersperse it with fragments of my speech, tailored to also serve as introductions to each speaker. The narrative turned out well, and I think the pace was good.

I think Dad would have smiled, laughed, teared up a little, and said “Good job mate. Probably could have left out the fuck.” He’s right, I could have left out the fuck.

My cat Macro was a stray, born into a litter of four, on the roof of a shopping centre, in a depression around a storm water drain pipe which dropped two stories into the basement. At the age of about one week, Macro rolled over and fell into the pipe, getting trapped in an S bend between the first and second stories.

I was working in an office on the second floor, the pipe running down the inside of our front door, and for several days we could hear meowing from the pipe. Not figuring there was a problem, we let it be as we went home for the weekend. Arriving back at work on Monday, the meowing, now sounding more desperate, continued.

While my boss was more concerned for the possible stench when the kitten would die, I couldn’t stand by while a cat suffered. So we found our way to the roof, and dumped a huge bin of water down the drain. Unfortunately it didn’t free him. Meanwhile the folks in the shop downstairs had called the fire brigade, who turned up several minutes later and blasted the shit out of him by sticking a high pressure hose down the drain from the roof.

Out in the street, they removed the storm water drain grill to look for the remains, and we all watched as a soaking wet shivering little ball of fluff marched triumphantly out of the storm water drain and into the street.

I took the little bugger home, and he lived out the rest of his days the way he walked out of that drain pipe, loving life, violently playful due to his stray background, and a great licker of anyone who would come near. He was a great friend for half my life.

Last Friday, 25th August, almost 17 and a half years after that fateful day at the shopping centre, Macro was put down, having discovered in him an advanced cancer.

After scouring the house, these photos and video footage are all that I have. In some ways, that was so Macro. There isn’t enough time in the day to stop for photos, when there’s a whole bunch of fucking trouble to be made.

A great friend. He will be remembered.