On behalf of my family, thanks so much all of you coming. It is a real honour for me to stand up here today and say a few words about my Dad, and something I really wanted to do. If it all gets too much and I have to take breaks for a few seconds, please bear with me. Sitting down to write this I was inspired by a stellar bit of public speaking from my Dad himself a few years back at the wedding of my sister Lisa and my brother-in-law John. To give you a bit of background, Lisa had previously had a couple of minor boyfriends who were also happened to be called John. At the wedding reception my Dad opened the father-of-the-bride speech saying 'We always knew Lisa would marry John. We just didn't know which John." There are two main things people immediately remember my Dad for, his amazing deadpan sense of humour, which someone this week described as impish, and the fact that he would always, always go out of his way to help people, without question. All of us here were very proud to have him in their lives, as a Dad, Husband, brother, Grandpa, cousin, uncle, and friend. While he didn't get directly involved himself, he was always very supportive of my Mum's Catecumanate church community, and considered them family, and knew they would always take care of her. The beautiful service and music today are a really fitting send off for him and I want to thank you all on behalf of our family. Sport was my Dad's great love. From motorcycle racing as a young man, to squash, sailing and later golf. Ealing Squash club, where he ran the leagues for many years, was like a second home to us growing up. Shaun Brosnan wasn't the type to talk about philosophy, but he did have one, and it was sportsmanship. Fairness, and just plain being nice was a big deal for him. When he played squash, no matter how hard-fought the point was, if he lost a rally he would always give a little cheer to his opponent. When we played squash with him as kids, he had a subtle way of letting us win a few games so you'd be convinced you were actually getting better. Those values on and off court, golf range, or sailing race were present in every single thing he did. He was never ever selfish, there was never any hint of ego about him, and I don't think I once heard him say a bad word against anyone. When his cancer meant playing squash would be too dangerous, in typical Dad fashion, he even turned that into a joke. In the spirit of courtside banter, he said he had to stop playing squash because of the Hickman line that delivered chemo, taped across his chest and running into his heart. He said if his mates on the squash court found out, especially the 'devious' Sunday night doubles lot, one of them might rip it out to win a point. So he stopped playing squash, his big passion, but he didn't make a big deal or fuss out of it, he just adapted and carried on. He still went for drinks with his old squash mates, but got more into the golf he'd started playing and became just as passionate about that. And that was the way he approached cancer. We didn't ever hear him grumble - only once, after climbing the stairs a couple of weeks ago, he looked at me and went 'fooof' - that was as close as he ever came to complaining. He left school at 13 to become an engineer and had an engineer's mind. He loved and believed in science, and trusted his doctors, and medicine did keep him alive. Six years ago when he was first diagnosed, the doctors told us he probably had just months to live. He fought hard and proved them wrong. He really enjoyed himself despite everything and kept doing the things he loved to do, sailing, playing golf and going on holiday with my Mum. People talk about 'losing the fight against cancer' -- On a round-to-round basis, I think my Dad won it. He knew it would be a tough fight, but I think he also knew that back then, we weren't anywhere near ready for him to go. It's a horrible thing to lose someone close to you, especially someone like my Dad, but something interesting has happened this past week. Maybe it's to do with the type of person he was. We've been sad, and we've definitely cried alot. But we've also had many moments of what my sisters call cry-laughing, when we'll suddenly remember some hilarious thing he said or did. Before you've even realised it, somewhere along the way the tears have turned into laughter tears. He just had this incredibly practical and pragmatic way of doing things, practical and pragmatic, but also definitely a little eccentric. His method could be applied to anything. After Lisa and I left home, leaving him with my Mum and two younger sisters, the house was even more female dominated than before. It turned out, though, that the quirky practicality my Dad used for DIY could also be applied to fashion. Style definitely wasn't his area of expertise. When my sister Jude asked which pair of heels she should wear with an outfit, he said 'which ever ones are more comfortable' -- obviously the wrong answer. But the problem of falling over in high heels, now that had a solution -- before the girls hit the streets in a new pair, he sandpapered their heels down to give them better grip. My Dad always was always there for us, but it wasn't just for us. If anyone needed help, he always had time to drop what he was doing, grab a toolkit and pop round. He never asked for anything in return and he really enjoyed it. Over the past years of his illness, but especially in these last few weeks, its become even clearer how much this meant to people. We've seen massive thoughtfulness, kindness and generosity that reminded us what a strong supportive community of family and friends we have, across the world. Kindness has also come from strangers - his local GPs and the Meadow House hospice team at Ealing Hospital were incredible, and made our last weeks together really special. The Meadow House nurse regularly visiting our home was frank but deeply sensitive and caring when decisions about dying had to be made, enabling Dad to die at home, in peace, with no pain, with his wife and all of us kids at his side. Meadow House Hospice relies on donations, and there'll be a collection for them on your way out today. My Dad faced death in a very brave way and I truly believe he was at peace with it. We spoke very frankly about death, and were able to prepare for it in the logistical way that was his nature. In one of those moments I said to him, the trouble with you is that to replace you you need an electrician, a mechanic, a plumber, a carpenter and a metalworker, to which he added 'and a gardener!' Just a few weeks back I held a ladder for him as he trimmed a tree with a chainsaw - he was convinced that I'd amputate a limb if I tried it myself. But he did, with extreme grace, let go bit by bit. he asked for back rubs from my youngest sister Maria. Holding court in the conservatory, he directed Jude and I to clear up the garden rubble and take it to the dump - he wanted things to be in order before he left. He was lucky to be able to keep his dignity right until the very end. Even on the day he died, he was still able to walk around, was able to sit and enjoy a cup of tea with us in the garden he loved so much, which he played in as a five year old when his parents moved to Ealing during the war. The flowers on his coffin today are mostly from his garden, picked by his grandchildren. This is a sad day. We already miss him so, so much. But it's also a really happy day, a time to remember what a lovely, friendly, cheerful man he was. His main wish for today was that it not be, in his words 'morbid'. In that spirit, you're all warmly invited to our family home today to enjoy his garden, swap Shaun stories and raise a glass to a great man. He was always there for us, no matter what, and he always will be, in our hearts and I'm sure in yours as well.