Happy Death Club

then my aunt died. Her name was Jean and she was born brain damaged. My g

maybe a good death means a good life. A life not full of unfulfilled dreams, or plans for the future that will never be realised.

A lot of crying people. Who doesn’t know the heart-wrench sting of grief?

To hold space for each other, gently.

Then I did what every writer does when faced with overwhelming trauma: I wrote about it.

‘Do you want a drink?’ It was 11am, but you’re legally allowed to drink any time you like on the day you bury a parent, so I looked at her and said, ‘Christ, yes.’ She opened her giant mum handbag and handed me a Capri-Sun.