My daughter Kate died at 6.29 am on Christmas Day 10 minutes before her five-year-old twins, Oscar and Isaac, came out of their room and asked: Is it morning? Barely enough time for her husband Billy to hold Kates hand and say goodbye before stocking-opening, which, of course, cannot be delayed.She had a colon cancer that was already advanced when they found it two years ago.I had filled and then emptied Kates red velvet stocking bought for her first Christmas, 36 years before to redistribute her presents. But before going to bed on Christmas Eve, I worried about the stuffed stockings for Oscar, Isaac and Billy resting against the banisters while Kates hung empty and limp, and went down to re-wrap her presents and stuff her stocking again.The rest of the day was basically the blackest of black comedy. For the next few hours I moved, disorganised, between touching Kates hand, watching the stockings being unwrapped, phoning the GP, asking Kates sister Jo to make the boys their promised waffles, phoning undertakers, letting the out-of-hours doctor in to certify the death while putting the turkey in the oven, consulting with the hospice nurse about arrangements, letting in the second nurse to wash Kate, finding clothes and soap and flannel, picking up wrapping paper from the boys frenzied present-opening, and checking the turkey.At times I leaned against the sittingroom door, uncertain about whether the turkey or the death arrangements should take priority.Just as I had stuffed her stocking, Billy had wrapped Kates presents on Christmas Eve in the most horrible pink wrapping paper, WH Smiths last remaining stock wrapped them so as to declare her still and always present. The boys helped to open them and decide which of Kates family and friends they could be given to. They were quite jolly. Five year olds think differently from us. They live right now, in the moment and if the moment has Minecraft and Lego and Playmobil, then thats just fine.