*this is an adapted version of what was read at Sarah’s Memorial in Blackheath Halls.    Sarah was my little sister – although really only little in terms of stature in every other way she was big – big personality, big heart, big laugh … and big voice.  No-one who ever met her, from her closest friends and family, to a total stranger she stood next to in a queue, could have failed to notice how much Sarah loved to talk.   When we were kids, Dad would sometimes take us running in the early morning around the streets of Hong Kong. I can’t remember what prompted this madness, but I do remember that Sarah would chat the entire time. From closing the front door to opening it again, she would talk continuously – almost without breathing. And this is a talent she never lost. A few years ago I read an article about the benefits of cold water swimming, so she and I got into the habit of taking a dip in the lido a couple of times a week. I would let her know when I was on my way and as I’d pull up, she’d be standing in the street outside her house chatting on the phone to someone; she’d hang up and, from the moment she opened the car door she’d chat away to me – all the way to the pool, as I parked, through the turnstiles, as we changed, in fact, sometimes she was still talking as I put my head in the water. And then, as we’d get out of the pool, she’d pick up the thread and talk all the way home.   And while she was capable of talking on any subject, what she loved more than anything was a really good moan. From the failure of restaurants to provide suitable vegan options – or worse still, if the vegan option was mushrooms, which she genuinely believed were the work of the devil –  or the incompetence of the postal service whatever the subject she was always ready to wade in and begin setting the world to rights. I’m sure when I was out of earshot, I was probably critiqued for any number of things, certainly, our brother Iain grew his hair long about 30 years ago and Sarah never gave up her one-woman mission to provide, possibly-unwanted, grooming advice to him. She loved, and was immensely proud of, working at Kings and I hope her lovely colleagues won’t be offended, or possibly even surprised, that she had some full-throated views on how she would do things if she was running the place – and maybe one day, she would have.   But the thing she loved to moan most about was her lack of social life. She was forever telling me that she was a borderline recluse – in spite of the stories I would hear of endless escapades that she got into (I’m sure I’m not the only one who got treated to the stories of her falling asleep on the train and waking up a dozen stops past her destination).    So, looking around the room at her memorial, I’m really glad that – for once – I get the last word:   Sarah was so much loved by the multitude of people whose lives were immensely richer because she was a part of them. We will all love her and miss her forever.