The priest appeared on the altar today resplendent in gold. “What feast is it?” I wondered to myself. All souls, of course. We prayed for all the dead relatives of whom, at my age, I now have more than enough. And I thought about our gardener when I was a child, Michael Lyons, who didn’t have any family of his own (in retrospect, surely he must have had but he was unmarried and lived in quite spartan conditions in a small cottage with a Jack Russell) and was one of the kindest people I have ever known, very gentle and infinitely patient with young children running in the vegetable garden. As Terry Pratchett once put it succinctly doubtless inspired by others “Do you not know that a man is not dead as long as his name is still spoken?” This is a lovely piece from the Irish Times on that very subject by the theatre director Garry Hynes which I first read when it was published in 2017 and which has really stayed with me.