You have four afternoons of material and forty years to account for.

There are more of you than the internet admits. The neighbour of eleven years who was the one who found him. The colleague asked because the family knew nobody at the firm. The cousin who is the last of that generation still able to stand at a lectern. The second husband speaking about a woman he had six years with, in front of children who had thirty.

All of you arrive at the same place at 11pm. A blank page, a thin handful of true things, and a strong instinct to bulk it out. That instinct is the entire problem.

A small window described exactly beats a whole life summarised.

The trap: the life summary

Short of material, almost everyone reaches for the shape of an obituary. Born here, married then, worked there for thirty years, three children, seven grandchildren, a keen gardener. Every fact correct, nothing in it yours.

A room can hear that immediately, and here is why it hurts. Every single person in the pews already knows the dates. What they came for is one thing they did not know, and a summary is the one form of speech that cannot contain one.

There is also a practical risk. Facts you gathered second hand are the facts you will get wrong at the lectern, in front of the sixty people who know better. Nobody can contradict what you personally saw.

Name the window in your first twenty seconds

Say exactly how much of them you had. Out loud, early, without apology. It costs you nothing and it buys the room’s trust for the whole speech, because everything after it is now offered at its true value.

I knew Margaret for eleven years, over a fence. That is not a lot of a person, and it turns out to be more than enough to miss her.

The neighbour. The fence detail is doing all the work.

I met John four times. His son is my closest friend, and the family asked me to speak because I am the only one who can stand up today without breaking. So this is going to be short, and all of it will be true.

Says why you are there, sets the length, and promises the one thing you can deliver.

I worked alongside Peter for six years and I never met his wife until this morning. What I can tell you is what he was like at 7am on a Tuesday, which is a version of him this room has not had.

The colleague. Turns the limit into the offer.

What a small window can carry

Go narrow and go deep. One occasion, described with the specificity of a witness statement, will do more than nine facts. Four things to look for in what you actually have.

• the repeated small thingWhat they did every time you saw them. Put the bins out at 6am on the wrong day. Answered the phone with their surname. Refused to sit down in your kitchen. A habit witnessed twenty times is real knowledge and it is funny in the right way.
• one exchange, in fullThe best 90 seconds available to you. Where you were standing, what they said, what you said back. Report it, do not summarise it. Direct speech is the only thing in a eulogy that cannot be faked.
• what they were like when nobody was performingYou saw them off duty — at work, over a fence, in a hospital corridor. Their family only ever saw them as family. This is the single thing you can offer that nobody else in the building can.
• how they spoke about the people in the roomIf he mentioned his daughter to you once, in the yard, in passing, say it. The daughter is in the second row and that sentence is the most valuable thing you will say today.

How to get material you do not have

Do not research a life. Borrow specific memories from specific people, with their names attached, and say whose they are. Attributed borrowing is honest and it is also better speech than anything you could paraphrase.

• 01Text or ring three people who knew them well, today.A sibling, an old friend, a colleague from the good years. Three is the number; more turns into a research project you have no time for.
• 02Ask each of them one question, not for a tribute.“What did he say too often?” or “What was he doing the last time you saw him properly?” A request for a tribute produces adjectives. A request for a scene produces a scene.
• 03Use their words as quotation, with the name.“His sister Ann told me last night that he never once arrived anywhere on time and never once apologised for it.” That does two jobs: a real detail, and Ann hears herself in the service.
• 04Then put your own window last, not first.The family’s material earns you the room. Your four afternoons are what you finish on, and by then they will be listening to them properly.

How long, and the shape

Shorter than you think, and it is a mercy for everyone. 2 to 3 minutes, 260 to 400 words at about 130 words a minute. Nobody has ever complained that the neighbour spoke briefly. For the arithmetic and how to time it, see how long a eulogy should be.

• first 20 secondsWho you are and exactly how much of them you had. One sentence each. No throat clearing.
• next 60 secondsThe borrowed memory, with the name of the person who gave it to you.
• next 60 secondsYour one occasion, told with a place, an action and something they said.
• last 20 secondsOne line about what the room is now short of. Then sit down.

If you were asked because nobody else could

This is the real reason a lot of people are reading this at midnight. The family is not able, so a steady outsider was asked. Say it, briefly, once, and then do the job. It reframes everything: you are not claiming to be the closest person present. You are holding something for people who cannot hold it today.

I am not the person who should be standing here, and everyone knows it. His daughter asked me because today she cannot. So I am going to say four true things, and then I am going to sit down next to her.

That is not a weak eulogy. It is often the one people remember, because it is the only speech in the service that is honest about the size of the day. If the service is in the morning, when the service is tomorrow has the overnight version of this.

• What do you say at a funeral when you did not know the person well?

  Say how much of them you had, in your first twenty seconds, without apologising. Then give one borrowed memory with the name of the person who gave it to you, and one occasion you witnessed yourself, told with a place and an action. Keep it to 2 to 3 minutes. Do not attempt a summary of their life.

• Should I admit I barely knew them?

  Yes, and early. “I met John four times.” The room can hear a thin speech pretending to be a thick one, and the pretence is what makes it hollow. Naming the limit means everything afterwards is heard at its real value instead of being weighed against a claim you cannot support.

• How do I get material for a eulogy about someone I hardly knew?

  Ring three people who knew them well and ask each one question about a scene rather than for a tribute — “what did he say too often”, “what was he doing the last time you saw him properly”. Then quote their answers with their names attached. Attributed borrowing is honest, and it is better speech than a paraphrase.

• How long should a eulogy be if you barely knew them?

  2 to 3 minutes, roughly 260 to 400 words at a reading speed of about 130 words a minute. Nobody has ever objected to a short eulogy from someone with a small window. Length is the most common way this particular speech goes wrong.

• What if I was only asked because nobody in the family could speak?

  Say that, once, plainly: “His daughter asked me because today she cannot.” Then do the job in four true sentences. Being honest about why you are at the lectern is often the thing the family remembers, because it is the only moment in the service that acknowledges the size of the day.