My extended family is strange. I used to think it was strange in a weird way, but I now know that it is no stranger than most other families.
My Auntie Olivia was born in 1936, the youngest of five girls and six children (my Granny used to tell my father, 'Blessed Art Thou Amongst Women'). She was the only one of the girls to go to University - this was largely because she had decided to become a nun. Joining an Irish order of nuns she went to University College Cork.
In later years she always seemed very straight-laced, but looking back, this was not really the case.
When I was small she was living and working in Kenya, teaching at a school in Mombassa. I was about five or six when she came to stay a few days with us, bringing photographs, stories and mementoes of a strange exotic place - a wicker basket and this necklace 
. She taught me some Swahili, which I remembered for some months, or maybe years. She also taught me to carry things on my head - it amuses my African colleagues when I do this to this day.
She later studied in Rome, and on another visit showed us a fascinating slideshow of the fabulous sites, where I memorably said, in disappointment at the Coliseum, "It looks like it's falling down".
The convent sent her to teach in Barry South Wales, and, then, other places in Britain. She became disillusioned, wanting to teach as a missionary, or not at all. So she left the convent and left teaching.
She surprised us all at the age of 53 by announcing that she was getting married, to a man ten years her junior. I didn't go to the wedding: it coincided with me starting my first job after University and I was not sure of timings. Plus, in those pre-Easy Jet days, getting to Northern Ireland was prohibitive, especially for someone in between University and work.
She and John lived in Putney, and when I moved to Streatham and then Brixton, I saw quite a lot of them. She seemed happy. Her work, for a sheltered housing complex was dull, but she had an active social life, meeting with friends to go to concerts and exhibitions, being active in her church, and, together with John, bombarding David Mellor, and then Tony Colman, with letters on a range of social issues (some of which I agreed with, some I didn't).
Four years ago she retired (and John took a 'career break') to move to John's family home in Antrim. This was to look after John's ailing father, who, however, died when the move was in progress.
She was never really happy there. My oldest aunt, Moira, was always muttering about how 'the nun' had made a mistake by moving there. At the wedding of cousin Ginny (fifth child of Auntie Moira) she spent along time telling Jimmy - who has roots in Northern Ireland - how unhappy she was. She made frequent returns to London to meet up with people.
Last year, John phoned Matt to say that Olivia had bowel cancer and secondaries in the liver. Matt's duty was to let the rest of the family know. The surprise was that she lasted so long after the initial diagnosis. The word was that she was depressed and not wanting to talk to people. Auntie Imelda, the second youngest, and a nurse, came over from Florida for some months. A few other people visited - Justin, the oldest son of Auntie Pat (Aunt number 2) - was due to visit last Wednesday.
On Monday night, Trisha, the cousin of my aunts and my father, emailed us to say that the end was near. On Wednesday morning my mother phoned me to say that Justin had phoned her to say that John had phoned him and that Olivia died at midnight on Tuesday/Wednesday.
In Ireland there is an expectation that the funeral will take place within three days. So, thanks to Easy Jet (and, for the Manchester/Nottingham contingent, BMI Baby), we jetted off to Belfast International Airport on Friday.
The weather was bleak. The drizzle was broken up only by heavy showers. A mist hung over the mountains, and Liz and I could not be sure whether or not we had come via the coastal road. Many of our family and Olivia's friends assembled - many could not come because of the short notice. We all commented that it was a good thing it was not happening in Kenya. Many more of John's family also assembled - their cousin, who also lived in the village - had died on Wednesday, from complications of diabetes.
The funeral mass was followed by an interment in the churchyard, and a 'do' at the pub. At other times, large quantities of tea were consumed. It was a thoroughly miserable day to end a thoroughly miserable way to die. It is miserable only to see people at funerals. For the first time I met my father's cousin Barney who had travelled up from Dublin. It is nice to find how easy it is to get on with someone, despite being strangers, despite her being twice my age, despite us being from different countries.
I pondered on the contrasting merits of Putney and Cushendun. Contrast living in a small flat with a gorgeous rambling house. A crowded stressful city or the beauty of the Antrim Glens. Urban architecture or the rolling Sea of Moyle. The peace and tranquillity would be tempting, but for someone who loved culture, to bean hour and a half from Belfast; to have only Ballymena, a one horse town, within easy reach.
One moment of levity - back at the airport I was checking the news headlines on my WAP. The main ones were about terrorist alerts. Liz commented, "Oh well, at least we're not likely to be affected here." I agreed and then we looked at each other. Safe, in Belfast!
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