Reporter Catherine Musgrove remembers how the news broke of Sir Tom Finney's death 10 years ago

It's something I won't forget.

I was 28 and I'd been working for the Lancashire Post - my hometown paper - for about 18 months, having previously been at the Lancashire Telegraph in Blackburn.

February 14, 2014, was a Friday, and I'd worked all week. I was set to work all weekend and to the next Wednesday too - a tiring 10 day stretch none of us liked. Happy Valentine's Day!

Click here to see photos of the send-off Preston gave to Sir Tom Finney

Back then we had a calls list that we had to ring every few hours - umpteen fire stations across the patch, coastguard, and the police force incident manager. I'd got home from work, had my tea, done a round of calls at around 7.30pm, noted down a few small incidents, and was thinking about settling down to watch a film with my husband before the next set of calls around 10pm.

"My heart jumped into my mouth"

It must have been about 8.30pm when I was casually scrolling through Twitter and I saw a post from a well-connected former colleague from Preston that said 'RIP the Preston Plumber'. My heart jumped into my mouth. No, surely not. Not on my shift. I'm a Preston girl, I'm a North End fan, I've grown up with the legend of Tom Finney, and I've always wondered what would happen when he died. There would be a huge weight of responsibility to get the news out quickly- and out properly. And now I'm the only reporter on duty.

Panicking, I started scrolling quickly through Twitter, seeing if this news was anywhere else. A few lines here and there, but not from any verified accounts. I start to tell my husband - who is from the North East via Yorkshire - about how massive this was. Then my phone rang, it was my news editor.

"Is it true?" I demanded, without bothering with hello. "I think so", came the reply. In those days there was no remote working and I hadn't been issued with a laptop, so at about 9pm I got back into my car and made the journey from my home in Penwortham back into work in Fulwood. I remember driving down Eastway in the dark, my head buzzing. I had no idea how long I'd be on for that night, if I'd be doing it all on my own, what we'd already got.

Valentine's meal abandoned

When I got into the office, several managers and web people were already there, and others were on their way in. I wasn't alone. The story goes that Dave Seddon, the PNE reporter at that time, had to get up from a Valentine's meal out with his wife, and dash back to Fulwood. Brian Ellis, chief reporter and former PNE correspondent, was also coming in.

Most of the paper had been written in advance, much like tributes for the Queen were. They mainly consisted of picture spreads and timelines and quotes from other footballing stars about the greatness of Sir Tom. What we had planned for the morning's paper was hastily shelved. My job that night was to gather tributes. I'd scroll social media, and I had to call the great and good of Preston for their thoughts. I remember sitting there with a list of numbers, wondering how they'd react to Catherine from the LEP calling them at 10pm on a Friday night. Eventually we had enough to fill the first few pages with what we needed, and I got out at about midnight.

It was a time of infancy for our social media channels, but we got everything out as best we could on Twitter and Facebook. So well, infact, that people from all over the country started getting annoyed with our hastag #ripsirtom, thinking it meant singer Sir Tom Jones had died.

The rest of the weekend was filled with more tributes, visits to floral memorials laid outside Deepdale, taking phonecalls from people wanting to share their memories. I was even disptached to the home of Sir Tom's son, Brian, with a bouquet of flowers from the Post. I can't remember him being in when I called.

The funeral

On the day of the funeral, February 27, a team of us from the Post took up different positions. Brian went into the church to cover the service, Laura Wild was down at Deepdale, I was with the crowds outside Preston Minster, and Iain Lynn was up in a small plane taking aerial shots of the courtege and the crowd.

It was a crisp, bright day for the funeral, and where I was standing, people were three to four deep, wanting to pay their respects. There were news crews everywhere, and the longest camera lenses I'd ever seen. The rumour was that David Beckham might attend, given that he'd been on loan at Preston early in his career, but he didn't. Still, there were masses of other huge names entering the church one by one, all eclipsed by the great man they were there to celebrate.

When the hearse eventually came around the corner, flanked by police horses, all went eerily quiet. Clip clop. People's heads bowed, tears welled in eyes. Preston was truly proud, and they wanted to say goodbye. We listened to the service via speakers, and I seem to remember applause at one point. I was chatting to people in the crowds, asking them about their thoughts, when someone from the council came to shift me. "Can you move? You're not supposed to be on this side of the barrier!" There was no obvious way of knowing I was allowed to be there, doing my job. And actually, right then, I was just a girl from Preston, caught up in it all.