Despite being informed about Phil on Saturday evening, mum and dad didn't tell me and my sisters until the Sunday morning; they wanted to give us one last night of peace for which I guess I'm grateful. I spent it at the Banana Comedy Club in Balham and although it seemed just a normal night at the time it has since taken on some significance, the last playfulness before the serious stuff took hold, as if a graduation ball. I was told the news when I phoned up home late morning on Sunday from my girlfriend, Jo's house. Dad had earlier driven to my place in Battersea but no one was in and he didn't know Jo's address or number. I had been about to go to the local cafe for a late breakfast and had phoned rather impulsively. Given that mum and dad were unlikely to be back from church I half expected the answerphone but mum picked up the call almost instantly and I could soon hear dad breathing down another receiver. Mum was unsure about telling me down the phone and asked if I was prepared to hear ("Hear what, mum?"). As she searched for strength and words I felt calm and needed, Jo recalls me shaking like a leaf. I turned to her as I sat down on her bed saying "Phil's dead, Everything's different now", words that often drift back to me and I hate it when (sometimes) I question them, Phil's death has to make a difference. Jo was in tears as she drove me home whilst I stayed in a state of denial, tapping my foot to the stereo and requesting a stop at my Battersea home for 'a last cup of tea' and in Stanmore 'to buy mum some flowers' (Which Jo stopped me - rightly - from doing saying it didn't seem quite right at the time). The scene on arrival at home was pure misery, - no sound, fixed stares and hands clasped around cold mugs of tea. There was little hugging, that came later, they were too drained to move. I slipped away to the lounge to watch the England Rugby highlights that I had been looking forward to and then I remember hyperventilating, lying on my back not able to breathe, vision blurring and Sally screaming to the others in the kitchen for help. Only then did I join their nightmare. Dad writes that the funeral arrangements absorbed much time. Those initial days before the funeral were indeed surprisingly busy although that was partly due to the fact that each day could be centered around completing just one job; phoning the Coroner's Officer about the release of the body, agreeing on the funeral service hymns, informing a friend. I had assumed that we would visit Phil at the undertakers just the once, but after first breaking the barrier of going in to see him, normally in a group, there was an urge to go back, often alone. In the days before the funeral after we got up and sat together downstairs we would think 'What can we do?' and we would say 'We can visit Phil' and off we would go, as if he was in hospital. I always wanted to go in last so I felt no pressure to leave, just like the morning shower rota. I laugh at myself now for spending time looking for signs of breathing, the pathologist had taken his heart out by then, but in that darkened room the movement of small shadows across Phil's chest played games with me. Buying flowers for the funeral was one of the few occasions early on where I had to combine with the 'outside world', those people who knew and understood nothing of our predicament. Mum and dad ordered white lillies and my sisters bought wreaths with their fiancé and husband respectively. Phil's death had caused our family's life-stage to jump forward (I'm now the youngest and only one not married) and the loss of its symmetry came home as I ordered alone, privately vowing to obtain the best flowers to prove how much I hurt. I flicked through the 'Guide to Floral tributes', a shocking selection of made to order arrangements - You could have the words 'Bye Gran' in shining silver enplanted in oasis amongst a plethora of flowers with the centrepiece being a rhododendron football, if you wanted. I asked for a bouquet with plenty of purple ones and wondered what on earth I would put on the 'greetings' card that was handed to me. Another such 'outside world' occasion was shopping with Sally in the Pinner Marks and Spencers store, I felt claustrophobic and panicky from the moment we walked under the jet of wasteful warm air at the entrance. The whole idea of frolicking amongst aisles looking for the most succulent cut, even the crispiest lettuce seemed depraved. Chocolate eclairs, grated cheese, fresh fruit flown especially from Tenerife, those chocolate eclairs. Unashamed gluttony of shoppers surrounded and swiftly constricted us - we both wanted to bolt for the door and in any case I knew it would save trying to stay composed at the checkout. I can see just why mum didn't look at a cookery book till September. At the funeral, dad says he was slightly inhibited by embarrassment when sprinkling water on the coffin. I experienced a similar, somewhat shameful sensation as I rode in the cortege passing through Hatch End sensing shoppers' smiles dissipate as we passed them by, as it did with passing skiers when I once found myself on a blood wagon. It may have been a welling up of the English aversion to spectacles, maybe a sense of vulnerability that another car may hoot or a pedestrian point and giggle, or maybe just a desire for anonymity. Everyone did so well at the lectern, by that I mean we didn't break down and cry (you can tell for sure we're English). Dad spoke with an unexpected force, otherwise I doubt he could have spoken at all. I had an uncontrollable spasm in my right leg and I think my sisters came up to speak together. Mum initially looked on the verge of collapse but became rejuvenated as she spoke, I remember her first words: "I think of Philip and hear his familiar voice 'Hello Mum, It's me Phil', and now I say to him 'Hello Phil, it's us your family and friends who love you and ask God to watch over you.'" Those words, 'Hello Mum, It's me Phil' are so right, just simple words but only Phil would say it quite like that, I can hear him now, even the intonation is spot on. I may have my similarities with Phil, our propensity to verbal dyslexia meant we were both liable to accuse someone of 'blowing a strawberry', but only Phil could say hi to mum like that. The few weeks following the funeral were spent surviving an energy draining haze, whilst driven by the need to know what had killed him. On the Sunday, before we were told about the heroin, mum says she had suspected a faulty gas heater which she had worried about only a few days before. There was also the possibility of asthma from which he suffered mildly, then the confusing and self-distancing reports filtering back from the students, suggestions of vast quantities of alcohol being consumed. And did we need to consider suicide? Surely not? It was all so confused and I found myself even wondering what 'type' of death was preferable: Drugs related (So unnecessary : Difficult for mum and dad to cope with) versus Natural (e.g. heart problem/asthma – But, may it affect me too?) I don't think I really cared as long as I wasn't going to die too. This wasn't a selfish reaction but I didn't want the family to suffer more by my dying. I was always convinced however that it wasn't suicide, as this did not feel right, if you want evidence I can point you in the way of a 'To Do' list he wrote but I don't think that's necessary. It took an amazing twelve weeks for the toxicology and post mortem reports to confirm heroin and this simply served to change the angle of the questioning. Was it an accidental or reckless overdose? Could he have taken a lethal second snort while high on the first? Even if it were not pre-planned, I guess there can be a fine line between recklessness and suicide. Prior to Phil's death dad had been keeping a brief but regular diary. There is a symbolic and abrupt ending of entries rather sadly on the top line of a 5-year diary. He did not start to make regular entries again (this time on his computer) until July. This does not surprise me, diaries are for the future, helping to understand the past. Writing down feelings would have seemed irrelevant except perhaps to help confirm that Phil really had died. My own feelings of bitterness started to predominate towards early summer as numbness subsided and events surrounding the death (rather than the death itself) started to emerge. I would have strange thoughts, I might ponder on the consoling words that people repeated, 'think of him in heaven' and declare that I might as well stop trying as it was obviously too easy to be allowed in. I can remember seeing the horrific news reports on the Oklahoma bombing, the dramatic images of destruction hinting at the agony of families destroyed in an instant. Bizarre, but I cannot deny that sense of glee such tragic reports instilled in me. I was bitter. I knew this feeling was one of brotherhood rather than malice, welcoming new members to 'The Club', and I never proactively wished tragedy on another, although for certain individuals I thought it might be good for their vacant souls. These feelings have certainly passed and (in my defence?) I think it may be true that I now feel for victims of misfortune more acutely than many of my friends, I am a more compassionate person. And as I write, I question whether I would have admitted to such bitter schadenfreude (in days gone by dad's favourite word) if I still felt the same now. There is a parallel with my ability to console friends with problems of their own. In the first 18 months or so I would either turn the conversation around to Phil or else spend it in a state of detached irritation. In late '95 a friend suffered a late miscarriage and treated it as a bereavement. I bit my tongue and agreed with her. She's since given birth to a baby boy and I feel concerned when I hear he's got a cold; I suppose this is evidence of moving on.