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  • My husband, Jacques, made a film about the life of a man from birth to death, when he was a student at the London Film School.

    He lay in our daughter's cot and invited me, my mother and my father to pretend we were cooing over a baby.

    It is the only photo I have of my father that shows him genuinely amused.

    I have written many stories and poems about my mother, because I had a very difficult relationship with her. I have only written two stories about my father because I loved him so much. It is strange that I need to write more about my anger than my love.

    I recently attended the wake of my son-in-law's father. He lay in his best suit, looking peaceful and rested. It was a very special experience. How wonderful to pay respects to a man when you can actually see him.

    I was thirty three when my father died. I had a quick phone call telling me that he had collapsed and died in his friends house. In the middle of a Bridge card game he suddenly excused himself from the table, made his way to the bathroom and quietly died.

    My heart was broken. I did not see him before the funeral. According to Jewish custom the lid of the coffin remains sealed and no flowers or decorations are allowed. I wish I had seen him one more time.

    I stood at the side of his grave and was horrified to hear the thump of heavy London clay on his coffin. I knew that below me was only the shell that had housed my father's spirit but that did not comfort me. I could not shake off the anger for two years that my father had died before he had the chance to enjoy his retirement.
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