I had the unenviable task of returning to Yorkshire for a family funeral yesterday. I've yet to go to a good funeral but there were smiles among the grief at this one. At times it was funny and tender and moving. My older brother and his girlfriend were also utterly astonishing during what was obviously an awful day for them.
On the way to their house, however, I chanced upon one of my cousins who told me a funny story about his dad... then dropped the bombshell that our family name was actually fabricated and taken from a dead sailor as our grandfather was illegitimate and wouldn't use (or wasn't allowed to use) his real family name.
Not that it really matters. All family names are made up at some point and if mine ws good enough for my grandfather and my father then it's good enough for me.
And I quite like the idea that I'm descended from bastard stock.
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