I remember Angela Walton, whose funeral I went to a week ago today. She was without doubt the sweetest, kindest, friendliest, most genuine person I have ever had the pleasure to work with. Her humour was always very self-deprecatory - as the Egham correspondent on the Surrey Herald she called herself "the Duchess of Egham", but with tongue firmly in cheek. If you asked her for an extra three pars she would say: "Always a pleasure, never a chore." If someone got stroppy it would be: "Ooh, get back in the knife drawer, Mr Sharp." She was short-sighted, drove a battered old mini and was the first person I heard use the word "pants" as slang for "rubbish". She was always having parties or get-togethers - in fact of the half-dozen or so I have been invited to in the past 10 years three were hers. But I suppose that just shows you how few friends I have rather than how many she had. The church was packed. She was lovely. It's not fair. But then cancer is never fair.