My dad died on the 18th of May, it was relatively sudden, although he was 85 and had been ill on and off for years.

I drove 180 miles to try to see him but he was gone before I got there.

I organised the funeral, wrote and delivered the eulogy, sorted the photos for the order of service and co-wrote the celebrant’s speech.

I had a small cry during the eulogy, but still managed to finish it.

I organised and paid for the food and drinks after the funeral and managed to catch up with a few people that I’d lost touch with and I then went to visit a terminally ill friend.

I sat on his bed and had a chat for an hour or so and drank some of his bourbon for him.

And that was that.

I had a short, pre-planned holiday, then I went back to work and threw myself into corporate politics and a restructure of global teams with a ruthlessness and coldness that would have made me a multimillionaire if I’d begun my career with that mindset.

And that’s it.

I’m not sad when I think of my dad (or mum) there’s just a gap, a void where there was a purpose. I can’t call him and listen to him complain for the few minutes that he actually talked, I can’t tell him of any interesting or dull events – there’s just a void in the space where we talked.

I know there’s one within me too, I don’t do emotional up and downs very much, but I’m flat even by my standards. I try to cover it over, but it’s still there and I think that it will be for a while.

I’ve had one ‘good’ day since June, I still walk the doglets and laugh at their silliness and it’s probably them that stops me obsessing over lost love and people that are effectively gone for ever.

I need to snap out of it, but even writing about it is just an intellectual exercise.

I had a short story come to me in my sleep last night, it’s nasty and violent, but I’ll write it to see if it makes me feel any different.

We’ll see