Britain lies under a blanket of snow. We sit under a shroud of grief, Marilyn reader of books, singer of songs, friend and sister to many though you were an only child. Marilyn beloved of Ben, mother of Jessie, Nick and Tom. And mother to many more: the tiny ones, not forgotten, sent to good homes because you loved them more than status, more than money. Your gift of charity, the size of your heart, your ambition for a better world leave us wanting more: more of you, and more people like you. Marilyn not a memory, but a living spirit to remember, to recall when darkness denies the truth of goodness you’re there, Marilyn Britain lies under a blanket of snow.