My only surviving uncle died last week at 85.

Uncle Doug had enjoyed a good innings (as they say in my native Yorkshire), which is where he'll be laid to rest, in the same bleak West Riding cemetery as my grandparents and other predominantly-male relatives.

The Mother and her sisters are now all widows. One aunt, in her 70s, has outlived two husbands and I wouldn't be surprised if she eventually took on a third. I still remember my formidable great-grandmother, who died aged 103, having survived three spouses.

"Is he being cremated or buried?" I overheard the Mother asking her sister over the phone.

"He's going in with his mother? Really? And will there be room for you, you know, later . . .?"

Hard to imagine old Uncle Doug having a mother, I thought, even a dead one.

"Well, that's the last of the men in the family gone, the men of your generation I mean," I said to my own mama.

"Not just in our family," she said. "I've been counting up how many of my friends are widows and there are six. There would have been seven if I'd counted your Auntie Mary."

Auntie Mary was The Mother's sister-in-law. Unfortunately, she died last month, aged 83, having outlived both her husband and two brothers.

"You only have to look at the obituaries to see that women really do live longer than men," The Mother said thoughtfully.

Ever since my father died she's been an avid reader of obituaries. It's the first page she turns to when she opens a newspaper, any newspaper, whether it's The Argus or a paper that's not The Argus.

She looks for the names of friends she's lost touch with and is always deeply interested in the causes of death, sex of deceased and age.

"Here's someone your age who's just died," she'll announce sombrely.

"What did they die of . . .?" I'll ask nervously before going away to brood about my own mortality.

Yesterday, I told The Mother that I'd go to the funeral. She'd been telling me how my aunt had asked the local Co-op to take care of all the arrangements.

"They did a very good job for Uncle Joe (The Mother's other brother-in-law) and Auntie Mary, so it should be a good send-off," she said.

"Maybe, but it's too far for you to travel just for a couple of days," I said.

"Well, you do have a lot of black clothes, I suppose," she replied.

"I've even got a black hat," I told her.

The hat is one I bought for my son's wedding and is decorated with large, artificial cherries.

"They'll have to go, of course," said The Mother.

"Why?" I asked. "Uncle Doug was very fond of fruit, he wouldn't mind."

And so it was I found myself in the pub later, discussing matters of life and death with a man who, like me, is divorced and has not remarried.

"Have you realised there are an awful lot of widows around?" I said.

"Which means, of course, that there are an awful lot of husbands who are pushing up the daisies," my friend replied.

"You're quite right," I said. "You know I think you're wise to stay single - not being someone's husband will probably add at least another ten years to your life."