2.5cm It is extraordinary to think how important a small measurement can be.

Two point five centimetres, or twenty-five millimetres, or one inch as near as damn it, appears a seemingly unremarkable value on first consideration; however if you were to open a copy of the Guinness Book of World Records, my favourite childhood book, you would discover otherwise. Two point five centimetres the height of the smallest hamster in the world, named PeeWee. Two point five centimetres the thickness of the largest pancake ever made, in Rochdale, Lancashire in 1994. Two point five centimetres the pituitary gland in the head of Robert Pershing Wadlow, the tallest man in recorded history at eight feet eleven inches. Two point five centimetres the diameter of the wheel on the worlds smallest unicycle, ridden by Swedens Peter Rosenthal for a distance of five metres in 2011. These are merely a handful of examples of the significance of this figure. This is one of several thoughts drifting through my mind as the crematorium begins to fill with mourners. I purposefully avoid looking into their eyes as they enter and instead focus my attention on the ruddy-faced clergyman at the front; is he a vicar or a priest, I wonder? So little is my interest in matters of the cloth that I am unsure of the precise differences, short of the Church of England slash Catholic association. Distracting though this musing may be it is not long before my contemplation inevitably returns to that day just over a fortnight ago. I had spent more time tending to our garden since putting the house on the market than I had collectively in the six years we had lived there previously. Many times during that period I had regretted not correcting things around the house and garden sooner and thus been able to appreciate and benefit from them; rather than seeing to them now merely as a showcase for the purposes of selling up. A glorious, sunny, spring morning totally unexpected given the weather reports had brought many residents out into their gardens: whether it be to clean windows; hose down patios; mow lawns for the first time that year or any other number of jobs one puts off during more inclement periods. This particularly balmy spell also meant that the neighborhoods children were out in abundance, including little Joshua next door. Being of the age where his mother Amy was not yet able to ship him off daily to a nursery or pre-school, Joshua had been near enough omnipresent during my stints in the garden over the last month or so. He appeared seemingly content just to run around

aimlessly until his mother would eventually demand that he go inside for his lunch, tea or dinner, dependent on the time of day. This was generally much to his disappointment and was often accompanied by loud protests of the snotty-nosed and damp-eyed variety. Over the previous few weeks, Joshua and I had invented a little game. I say invented, more really that Joshua had taken it upon himself to initiate this minor amusement and I had been left with the dilemma of whether to humour him or ignore him. Halfway along the lawn, a small, round hole in the fence separating the two gardens, no more than an inch wide, was the attraction for the toddler. Joshua would peek through the gap; I in turn would feign ignorance of his presence, then after a moment or two would spin around and imitate a monster or some such creature that would both scare and delight him in equal amounts; a riotous burst of screams and giggles signalling his participation in the charade. It may seem very childish and frivolous to an impartial onlooker, but to me, not yet having children of my own, it was an enjoyable distraction from the repetitiveness of the garden and it was our secret game. Sophie would have had something to say about simple things pleasing simple minds if she had seen us playing it Im sure. A quick glance around the crematorium and I see Joshuas mother sitting alone in the row directly opposite. I find it very odd that she should be here on her own; then again I still have no idea about her personally. I know nothing of her friends, family or relationships. Its remarkable that you can live next door to someone for over a year and know so little about them. In more than twelve months we had not held more than a handful of conversations, always civil but reserved, very British. Exchanging pleasantries as we passed each other whilst entering or exiting our respective front doors; the occasional misdelivered letter or a parcel left by a hurried, anxious delivery man; and a brief seasonal doorstep card exchange during the festive season. This was the sum total of our relationship with Amy, who we assumed was a single parent. As there had been no sign of a man on the scene since Amys arrival next door, Sophie and I had come to the conclusion that Joshuas father was absent. I had often wondered whether Joshua had begun to understand the notion that his father was not present and if he had not already, when would that difficult time come that Amy would have to eventually explain the situation to this wide-eyed, innocent youngster. Without a sufficient explanation as to the reasons, would the child internally blame himself for his fathers absence? It is common for children to do so, especially when a valid justification is not present. I had pondered over this on several occasions whilst in that

garden, and surmised that perhaps the absence of a male figure in his life would partially explain the reasoning behind his fascination with me. I suppose I knew Joshua better than I did his mother when I think about it. The time I had spent out there had enabled me to observe his routines and rituals; which patches of garden he preferred and how long he spent in each one, uttering incomprehensible gurgles interspersed with the occasional intelligible word, though I suspected every murmur made sense to him. Perhaps Joshua had been doing the same with me, in his own innocent way. I guess I had my own rituals out there as well, whether it was the manner in which I would focus my attention on one specific area of the garden each day; the way I always put my left gardening glove on before my right; or my systematic method of sweeping the path from top to middle then bottom to middle, creating a neat pile of leaves and other detritus in a position equidistant from house and shed. Joshua would watch me for long periods at a time and, even when not playing the monster game, I would be aware of that small, pale blue eye peering through the gap in the fence. I had spent a majority of my time over the past weeks weeding and clearing a large portion of the garden beyond the main lawn and had, back-breakingly, covered the area in three tons of gravel stones so as to achieve a low maintenance effect in order to entice prospective buyers. However, the stones did have the habit of spreading around the immediate area; mainly due to our cats, and other local moggies, lavatorial activities; I suppose they perceived it to be an enormous litter tray placed there for the sole purpose of soiling it as regularly as possible. As any conscientious gardener knows, and as my father would vehemently remind me during my childhood mowing experiences, a lawn should be methodically cleared of stones before commencing the task. Ever since those days though, I have been more a fan of the lawn roulette game myself, and somewhere subconsciously there is a rebellious part of me that has always enjoyed the harsh CRACK! of blade hitting stone. Having briefly scanned the collected mourners; some familiar, others not so; I take comfort in diverting my attention to Sophies beautiful face. I never tire of looking at her, even now as she sits here; stunning black dress, perfect make up not too much or too little, an air of graceful stoicism concealing the inner turmoil I know shes suffering. She has dealt with things so well; fielding the constant calls from concerned friends and family; the ongoing inquest; the intrusive press especially. It is so typical of her, her inner strength really being called upon to carry us through now. I notice a tear

begin to well in the corner of her perfect eye so I reach over and gently place my left hand across the back of hers, which are folded delicately in her lap, though she remains completely motionless, her eyes transfixed on the wooden box at the front of the room. I should have cleared that lawn. I replay that moment in my mind over and over; every sight, sound and smell leading up to that instant. The bright sunlight forcing me to squint as I turn; the harsh buzz of the mower almost completely drowning out the medley of whistles, clicks and gurgles made by the starlings gathered in the nearby cherry blossom tree; the sharp, acrid, almost metallic scent of the grass cuttings accumulating in the drum. I am reminded of an article that I read once that noted in reality the smell of freshly cut-grass is actually the grass anguish, a chemical compound given off by plants in time of distress. With my attention wandering as the speakers on the podium change I find myself, completely inappropriately, chuckling inwardly at the thought of me, here, in a House of God. Since reaching the age of having the freedom of choice, I suppose agnostic, verging on atheistic, has consistently been my theological stance; not quite Christopher Hitchens-esque, but nevertheless a staunch non-believer. Therefore, I have never been particularly enthusiastic about visiting places of worship; rather difficult to avoid when touring around France and Italy as Sophie and I did several times in the last fifteen years. She has joked on many an occasion when I have opted not to go into the seemingly endless churches, cathedrals, abbeys and chapels on our travels that I would probably burst into flames as soon as I crossed the threshold anyway. God I love her. Two point five centimetres the precise length of the sharp, gravel stone left lying hidden in the uncut grass. Two point five centimetres the width of the steel blade belonging to the lawn mower that struck the stone in question. Two point five centimetres the average distance above the ground at which that particular brand of lawn mower hovers. Two point five centimetres the exact measurement of the hole in the fencing panel separating numbers sixty-five and sixty-seven Mayfield Avenue, Sutton Coldfield. Religious belief is that all things within the universe are caused and directed by non-natural phenomena and some theists claim that what may seem like a series of coincidences to a non-believer is in fact Gods plan at work. I wonder if that is how the vicar slash priest will explain it to the gathered throng here today. Before he returns to the podium, however, another figure gets up to say a few words. There is a familiarity

there, a hint of recognition, but I can not quite place my finger on it, nor am I able to put a name to the face. A tall, heavy-set man, with a moustache and curly, black hair, appearing not quite of our time in his dark grey, shiny suit; which looks rather unfitting for a funeral, and indeed on his large frame. As he clears his throat to speak I realise, and the memories again flood my consciousness. Sun blazing, I turn, squinting, then that sound - CRACK! Every image beyond this point is a blur, dream-like, but at the same time I am crippled by the reality. As the mower gradually comes to a stop, the sounds of the starlings fade into the distance as Joshuas interminable screams become the only audible sound. The blood, oh the blood! Now I have it on my hands, the deep, rich crimson runs through my fingers as I try to press down to stop the bleeding. I do not listen to the man at the podium; I do not have the need. Not out of arrogance but out of realisation. I now know why I recognise his face; he is the paramedic who first arrived on the scene. It may seem odd for him to be present at this service; however to me it is not surprising at all. He is probably here at the behest of the national press, this having become such a high profile story. They have lapped it up of course a horrific, suburban gardening accident; one dead, another left traumatised, bread and butter stuff for the gutter press. I visualise his bushy moustache and curly, wig-like hair, running up the garden in his bright yellow and green uniform, his box of emergency equipment in hand. Now I can see him pushing my blood-stained hand aside so he can address the wound but as I look into his eyes it is obvious he knows it is too late. Then the screaming finally stops. Two point five centimetres the distance the stone travelled behind the eye socket, piercing the left frontal lobe, according to the coroners investigation. Its too late, hes gone. I hear the paramedic say and nothing is real. Two point five centimetres the exact distance above the hole in the panel where the stone struck the fence, ricocheting at the perfect angle. Two point five centimeters further south and we would have been sitting here mourning the death of a child, but thank you God, we are not. Instead it is me in that box. The service is nearly over and the music begins to play. The opening strings arrangement of The Verves History signals the commencement of the coffins journey into the fiery tomb and I realise that I do not have long. I turn once more to face Sophie and now I see that crystal tears are flooding down her cheeks. I lean across the pew and

gingerly kiss her cheek where her tears are flowing. I can almost taste their saltiness as I softly whisper to her. I will always be with you, and with that I am gone. I have been given my chance to say goodbye and for that I shall be eternally grateful. Now I, like so many others before me, and so many more to come, understand.