Dominic Fox
			Her life was grubby only around the edges, from where grubbiness encroached but was held at bay by a multitude of devices. In the middle of it all was the island of domesticity, not a serene paradise, but a place where you could have ups and downs instead of just being dragged and held under the way you would be out there. Mourners at her funeral remembered a woman who did her best, had a lot of sadness in her life, died no younger and no older than could be expected having outlived a husband and a teenage son. The son I am angry about, the callousness of his suicide (under a train - the train she was coming home on, of all possible trains). She forgave him, either having no choice or choosing without being able to choose otherwise, if that distinction can be recognised. Grubbiness was a likelier foe than catastrophe, and could be fought without histrionics, which were themselves just a part of grubbiness when all was said. So much more to her than that, not hidden but muted, as if one could never make too little noise. I don't mean to suggest timidity, but restraint, which is different. She would have stood up to you. She stood for a great deal.