Sad music. Blank page in front of me. He is gone. Dead. Final curtain.

Next of kin, they said. You are responsible for his legacy. Make everyone understand who he really was.

"My husband was a prison guard. A firefighter. A police officer. Enforcing his own laws."

I swallow. Cross out my words.

"My husband was a generous man. He regularly donated to the charities of his choice, first and foremost to the Protectors of the Barley Juice and the Promoters of Free Love."

I shake my head. Start again.

"My husband was the best father any child could wish for. Most days, he remembered his son's name. He even knew that Danny was scared of the dark. He tried to help him overcome his fears by scaring the crap out of his four-year old son every night he returned home from worshipping at the altar of the Church of the Grail of Golden Guzzles."

I look up to stare at the picture of Danny and me taken just a few weeks ago. Taken by my husband. Danny's eyes are wide, his smile fake. My face deformed into what seems to be genuine laughter. The massive bruise I had acquired the night before when I had suggested worshipping at an alternate altar, maybe the Church of Eternal Kindness, was peeking out a little bit from the end of my sleeve. I can still picture my husband's face as he took the shot, his brows furrowed, his teeth clenched because Danny wouldn't give him a radiant smile. Or rather couldn't.

I crumple up the page in front of me, lob it in the bin. Change the music to something upbeat.

"My husband was the love of my life. I met him when I was just 20 years old. I was a poor student, trying to make ends meet, when this devilish handsome, powerful man quite literally crashed into my life. It was love at first sight. My husband opened horizons for me, gave me a future, a perfect son, in short, he gave me the world. He was not only dedicated to his little family. He was also a loyal friend and well-respected colleague. You see me here, standing in front of you dry-eyed, simply because the reality of his death has not yet sunk in. I still expect to see him walk into the room, his usual wicked smile on his face, giving me a quick peck on the cheek and a warm hug. My life has irrevocably been changed by his sudden death. All the life is a stage, and my husband was the consummate actor." I picture myself looking away from the audience at this point, staring into thin air. "Baby, I miss you and will always love you."

Satisfied, I put down my pen, fold the paper I have written my little speech on neatly and put it into my purse. Making sure I won't forget it.

My husband's parents will love my words. I can already see them, dabbing their eyes gently, revelling in the sympathy of the other mourners. His favourite drinking buddy will nod vigorously during the entire speech, willing me to finish up quickly so that we will all get to the barley-syrup-flow-freely part of the ritual, while his co-workers will roll their eyes at each other surreptitiously, communally remembering what a twat he had really been. My best friend and only confidante will turn beetroot red with the effort to shut herself up. But she will hold her tongue, too. No speaking ill of the dead, at the very least not at their funeral. Even Verity will acknowledge this universal truth.

When the funeral feast is over, I will take off my costume, give Verity, who will have stayed behind, a hug and finally start crying.

Curtain.