Popped bubblewrap is no good.

Normality and how to define it.

Ada chased Tommy up the street. "Tommy come back! I didn't mean it was your fault for her death! You know I didn't you're just being overly sensitive."

Tommy wasn't going to respond until he heard Ada's last comment. "Sorry sorry sorry. Did you just say... overly sensitive? My only child is dead. I think I'm allowed to be sensitive. In fact, I know I am. I know I am."

"Oi don't take that tone with me. Just come in a have a cup of tea. Everyone has regrets, don't just run away."

"I don't want fucking tea."

"Tom-"

"I said, I don't want fucking tea. I... have a funeral to plan."

Ada knew she was defeated, so gave up. "Fucking men."

Tommy had not shed a single tear. He must learn to adjust back to normal life, or whatever that meant and crying wouldn't help.

That tiny little Angel, was now literally one. His Angel.

Tommy was going to hold her a gypsy funeral and invite that lovely little barmaid. He thought they would've got on very well.

'Go to the morgue' his internal monologue told him.  'No.' Another side told him. Let her rest.

He wanted the funeral done quick, letting her marinate too long would've been cruel. He wanted to get her at peace, if heaven was real.
'What do I need to send her off with?' Pink Rabbit. He was going to give her pink rabbit.

The morning of the funeral was something he couldn't describe. He didn't let anyone come close to him or touch him. Today was about Cora and not him, as should of everyday of her life been. Tommy had an immense feeling of guilt and shame he couldn't shrug off.
All the neighbours came out as the caravan went down the street- except Mrs Pomary. Sour old hag, he thought.

Now the funeral was over, it fully affirmed her death.
Now the funeral was over, it confirmed how Tommy needed to move on.

Easier said than done.