Alex's Ma's passed. Done well, achieved three score year and ten plus twenty, from cradle to grave and onto glory.
The funeral parlour has a large window facing out to Govan Road, but it's discreetly covered by a vertical blind. The front room has been fashioned like a comfortable living room, with sofas stationed around a fireplace, over which quite an interesting picture of Glasgow hangs.
More people arrive and we move as a body into the parlour, dim and subdued. The keyboard, with organ stops selected, is playing a medley of Abide With Me's. Some nod reverently to our friend, whose frail mortal shell lies in the casket, before taking a seat and sitting in quiet reflection.
A quick read through the hymnsheet and thoughts resurge over the lives and deaths of those whose passing we commemorated, celebrated, grieved and felt relieved over.
On the way back round the road, I pass a garden of sleepy dogs sprawling in the warm sun. One of the hounds is leaping in and out the window of the ground floor. Two couples organise a barbecue for later.