Good Afternoon, I am, Russell Cogman, Keith's son. To begin with, thank you to everyone who is here, today. And for those of you that cannot be here, I thank you for your thoughts and wishes that you have sent to my family. I would also like to thank those that have helped me and my family at this difficult time. Without the support of so many, today would have been much harder than it already is. We are all here of course, to pay our respects to my father, Keith Cogman. I have, in truth tried to prepare myself for this day. Wondering if I would be able to do justice to my father's memory, how I would feel and what I would say. I had hoped, that I would find on his computer, a folder full of information and guidance called “If the worst happens, Read this Russ”, to help guide me along, just like he had done all throughout my life. Sadly, that folder did not exist. Thanks Dad. Despite the sadness, I feel blessed in so many ways for how I was able to share so many key moments in my life with my Dad. He was there to help me choose my first car, see me get married, have a son and buy my first house. Gladly, these were over a number of years, but throughout all of these milestones he was there for support and to give me advice. He was my teacher. My confidante. My Dad lost his father in 1943, giving his life to keep his family and country protected. Because my dad was unable to spend time with his own father I knew it was important to him for us to spend as much time together as possible, and this we did. From childhood, playing games and building models, to schoolboy helping me with my homework, relearning whole subjects himself when necessary to help me better understand, rather than just answer the questions. In adulthood, working together in his photography studio and out in the field, (sometimes quite literally in a field) helping and teaching me how to earn a living. And when I chose to become a cartoonist and illustrator he helped again, by becoming my agent, advising and guiding me, every step of the way. I can safely say, hand on heart that without my father's encouragement, enthusiasm, calm guidance and patience I would not have the job or life I love today. My father was always a man of maps. Throughout my entire childhood I can scarcely remember a time when he wasn't scouring an Ordnance Survey map for routes to jobs, holidays and jaunts. He always knew where he was going and how long it would take well before Sat Nav had reared its head. I was lucky enough to travel with him throughout the entire country for location work, also seeing much of it from the front seat of a helicopter when I accompanied him during his aerial photography work. I can still taste the Fish and Chips we had before lunch when we flew into Cromer from Coventry airport one morning. That was a cold day too. He digested books with a fervour. Seemingly the more boring the better. He joked with me from a very young age that he was always searching for the book “Lesser-known Ukrainian Mosses”, followed by a cheeky wink. Although I knew he was only joking with me, I did end up searching for the book on Amazon a few years back when searching for a stocking filler Christmas present. I would like to think that one day he would have got around to writing it himself. The body is a fickle vehicle, showing little respect to the spirit, humour or intellect of its occupant. When my father was first diagnosed with prostate cancer 6 years ago (almost to the day that we have gathered here to remember his life and respect his passing), something changed in the way I saw the man that was my father. He was no longer this immortal, unshakeable figure in my eyes, and I saw a vulnerability that I had never seen before. However, despite having to undergo radiotherapy, invasive operations and hormone treatment, he never moaned about it. Sure, he grumbled. If there ever was place to be called out about my father's penchant for a grumble or gripe, it would surely be here, surrounded by people who knew their own side of him. But when it came to his illness, he never chose to mention it. He refused to wear it as a badge. Because of this there may well be some of you here today that were unaware until perhaps very recently what my father was battling. To you, he would probably say the same he said to me, even when we were at his bedside just a few weeks ago. “Don't worry about it”. Well, the worry is over now, Dad. What remains, is perhaps best summed up by the simple, solitary note left on his computer, which I think sums up our feeling. “Grief is the price we pay for love.” From the messages we have received and from what I see here today, it is obvious that my father was and remains loved. Goodnight Dad. Thank you being my teacher. 3rd February 2014