Today I am going to a funeral for a man I hardly knew and yet he was probably the one person for whom I have the greatest regard. His name was Bill. I met Bill 15 years ago on the day I moved into Ormesby. I had been living and working in London for many years and had tired of the daily grind. My job was no longer the satisfying career I had started and in looking for a change I found myself with a job offer in Great Yarmouth. Being single and living in rented accommodation I had no ties, so after making the necessary arrangements I packed my life into cardboard boxes and headed for the east coast. It didn't take long to install all my worldly goods in the small cottage I had rented and as it was a late September evening and unusually warm, I decided it was time to explore my new surroundings. I walked past the green and towards the small general store near the village pond. "Evening," came the voice from nowhere, waking me from my reverie. The voice emanated from an old man leaning on a garden gate. The sudden unsolicited greeting surprised me, as large as London is, people just didn't talk to you. Everyone was wrapped up in their own world, as though afraid or unwilling to share anything with anyone. "Good evening," I replied, "a beautiful one too!" I added, pointing to the crimson sky in the west. "Aye, but we'll have rain later that's for sure." Assuming this was the local sage who dispensed weather reports based on what the local wildlife was doing or the condition of his bunion, I inwardly smirked and replied, "And how do you know that?" "Said so on the weather report after the news," came the reply, with just a hint of surprise at my apparent lack of logic. "Ain't seen you before, you new?" "My name's Derek, I've just moved in." "Name's Bill, pleased to meet you," and with that he thrust out a rough calloused hand ingrained with dirt and fingers yellowed by years of smoking. That was my first contact with Bill over 15 years ago and we became quite good friends. I would see him most days leaning on his garden gate wearing just his vest, trousers and braces (weather permitting) and sucking on his old pipe. He lived alone since his wife died some years previously. We would often stand talking over his gate, or over a pint. Sometimes we would just sit together in his garden or mine, quietly enjoying each other's company. One day I walked down the street to the shop and he wasn't there. Surprised, I asked at the shop only to be told that he had died the previous night. My friend had suddenly gone and hadn't said good bye. Story laureate Sue Welfare writes: This is nicely paced with well observed characters. | 
