There was a time when the five of us were inseparable. Born during the Second World War, we grew up in the same village; three of us in the same road. Like many groups of boys then we called ourselves a gang. In those days the word didn't conjure up any of the terrifying pictures it might today. We were basically good kids, albeit a little mischievous at times. With a play on the series of Enid Blyton books popular at the time, we named our gang The Infamous Five and shared many wonderful adventures. However, for me to say today we'd known each other all our lives would be misleading. For most of that time we only knew of each other. We kept in touch, but only loosely. After grammar school, our paths took us in different directions. Of course, we continued to send one another the usual greetings cards, and for the few big things like weddings, we'd try to meet up again. And then one day, right out of the blue, came something new to bring us together. It was a funeral, and it was for one of us.