And so it was that we said our goodbyes to Mumo as we laid her to rest on Tuesday afternoon. The weather forecast had predicted rain but the sun came out instead which was a blessing in itself as the crematorium was running half an hour late so we all had to stand outside. Nobody seemed to mind, keeping to schedule is not the norm in this part of the world, friends and family chatting away amongst themselves until the doors finally opened and in we went. I’d picked some flowers from the garden which I placed on her coffin – a bit of a haywire bouquet as the March winds had blown off the best blossoms.

Like most services of this kind, it was short – we’d only been given half an hour so brother Simon and cousin Robert had practised the running down to the nth minute. Robert, a vicar in Wales and Mumo’s only nephew led the proceedings, our mum was not particularly religious but Rob knew her well and is a seasoned professional at these sorts of events. The night before he’d regaled us with stories as we sat round the family dinner table – the one about gangsta rap being played as the final request sending the lot of us into uncontrollable laughter. That and his choice of footwear on the day itself. Simon’s eulogy reminded us of what an incredible life our mum had had, his son Louis standing at his side translating the words into French. I’d had the forethought to ask Louis and Katie (Simon’s daughter) to print out the français version the night before even if they did change some of the text – nuances they amused. And I managed to get through my little speech dry-eyed; that was until I sat down next to Callum, looked over at my sister Bong and the sobbing started. Mercifully for the rest of the attendees we’d made to the end before the mascara ran and as we left the starkly beige auditorium, placing a kiss on her coffin, everyone was ready for a hug. And a very large drink back at chez nous with our friends.

Funerals are like weddings in a way, you spend so much time beforehand planning such events and then, bing, it’s all over. I wrote the same sentiment after Tony’s. Most of my siblings and their sprogs left the day after; Bong and her family back to New York, Katie back to London and Simon and Alba to Narbonne. They’ll all be back in June when we will scatter Mumo’s ashes next to Pop – the sun should be properly out by then. Luckily for me, I’ve still had company – Moth left yesterday as did Louis but Callum will be here a little longer. Just as well as we’ve needed to replace the entire sink unit in the main house as it broke mid-way through the after buffet – Denis came up trumps finding an almost perfect fit in the back of his garage. Having occupied myself with bits of furniture restoration, I’ve had to move the finished pieces into the room downstairs so Cal can get on with door frames and electric updating. Then there’s the pool deck to be sanded down and re-oiled before the new liner goes in, the potager needs to be turned over for the new season veggies and my back stairs need re-painting. Life will never be quite right without her but Mumo would be the first to say: dry your eyes, put on your boots and enjoy the sunrise…

I shall leave you with my ‘Letter to Mumo’ – the English version ahem..

“Classy, elegant, fun, always with a gentle smile your friends remember. A born diplomat, confidante, never one for an argument yet fascinatingly intelligent – you could recite quotes from literature off the top of your head and rarely failed to complete a crossword. You were the ultimate hostess, always making sure glasses were filled and tummies sated. Your family motto FHB (family hold back meant guests came first). Stunningly beautiful, you may have appeared fragile on the outside but that came with a spirit forged of steel.

To us, the Collinses, you were Mumo. Or Grandmummo. The voice of reason when you needed it most. Except when we were the cause of the trouble and then we’d best be running the opposite way. I once asked you why you never said “I love you” like other parents said to their kids. You replied, I shouldn’t have to, you should know I do. And we did. Despite living on opposite ends of the world, if there was a way to get home for Christmas, we did. To your home. Aude. First the magic of L’Horte, the house that you and Pop (along with various family hands) built and then Rouffiac – a place you said gave you peace. A place for family and friends, old and new to drop by and share an hour or two over a cup of tea.

I still look through the kitchen window when I come back from my morning run, expecting to see you on that damn stool sipping your coffee, a single muffin delicately sliced as you read the news on your Ipad. But you’re no longer there. But you are. You continue to live inside all of us; Simon has your love of books and your level headedness, Bong has your elegance and love of music, Moth has your patience the love of Kenya and wildlife, and for me I hope the steadfastness of friendship and a love of German Shepherds and rose gardens. And so much more is carried on through the next generation that you were so so proud of.
I will finish with a quote from one of her favourite Oscar Wilde plays – The Importance of Being Ernest
“ I never travel without my diary. One should always have something sensational to read in the train”