A Funeral.

And so here I was, at 25, sitting second row deep at my best friend Sophie’s largest party to date.

When someone dies, people always speak of ‘something missing’ in their lives. Nothing is missing. Death is like moving house. It is simply that someone has moved, to a new, dark and very much smaller house, where nobody visits and nobody can communicate. Really, it wouldn’t make much difference to the people at this party, except that now they felt guilty for treating her like she’d already moved house while she was still alive. These people were trying to fill their missing spaces with self-forgiveness. Of course it’s not their fault that they didn’t take 5 minutes a month to call her and say something appreciative. They didn’t have time between work and their babies, their box set DVDs and shopping for a new dining table. “Nobody can be blamed for her death, it was a tragedy” they’ll say later, while they stare into their wine and Pride and the Prejudice DVDs dimly light a room with a new dining table and the TV cabinet they bought, reassuring themselves that “Sophie would have loved it”. They were here because they needed self re-assurance. There was no true compassion. This death was their fault.

Sophie had come home from work that Friday, her last column written and handed to the boss. She drank a glass and a half of wine, the lipstick on the rim was her last mark of self-enjoyment left for anyone to find. Then she’d hung her clothes.

But Sophie never got undressed.