C. died late yesterday afternoon.

We kept the vigil with the others through the day. The deterioration from the day before was obvious when we got there, and we could see her sinking during the day. Unlike Sunday, when everything stayed level. Our last visit to the bedside was from 3 to 4, roughly. I read “Johnny Town Mouse” to her, eschewing the highbrow. We then left, to get home to insulin and carbohydrate before the rush hour. I said on departure that I didn’t think we’d spend tomorrow (=today) in the same way.

She died almost at once. Our niece tried to call us back, but we were threading our way through Edinburgh without a mobile phone. Her three daughters and little C. were all with her. They didn’t summon a nurse.

Death could so easily, in a situation like that, have made His move while we were all six having a picnic lunch in the garden on Marks and Spencer sandwiches, or while one or the other had gone for a walk. Given that none of us is exempt, and that the process is not likely to be entirely pleasant, it qualifies beyond doubt as a good death.

We don’t know what the arrangements will be. It is a vast relief not to be involved in them. Our first job is to ensure that my husband has something decent to wear. Something that fits and is clean and isn't riddled with moth holes. That done, if there is any delay, I hope we will go to K*rkmichael for a few days. My husband does not like the idea of his sister being refrigerated – he put it in those words, last night – but that’s what might happen.

Joe’s first sock is very near the heel flap. His great-aunt’s death has been knit into the fabric of those socks. I tried to get back to the shawl edging last night, but had trouble with it. There’s a mess in the 9th scallop that I nearly took out, then I thought, no, I can fix it with a needle afterwards. But this morning I thought no, again: I’ll leave it, and one day I’ll show it to my niece and tell her that that’s where I was the weekend her mother died.