When I first started writing for Lyn’s esteemed publications I was pushing sixty. Now I’m towing it. As you get older you gradually become aware of the ageing process, and you naturally start to consider your mortality; particularly when you need to attend a funeral, as I did recently.
This is unchartered territory. I’ve had close family members die, but that was 26 years ago. This funeral was for a friend aged 77. I’ve never had a friend die on me before. At times like this you start to wonder where all the time has gone, and you become aware of how your priorities have changed over the years. One minute you’re asking someone if they’ve heard the new Clash album, and the next you’re enquiring after their health. Thankfully, I’m in excellent health for my 63 years, save for mystery aches and pains that come and go, and are usually either gym-related or the result of a cat-related injury. My pain was sadness in this situation. Sad for Colin and his family; but sadness for my own loss of youth, lost opportunities, and uncertainty of what the Good Lord has in store for me.
There was also uncertainty on what happens on such occasions, and how to behave. What do your wear? Is it all black, or are you expected to express yourself these days? The person to ask would’ve been another member of Lyn’s team from a few years ago. The late-Harry Pope was supportive of my writing, and his book Buried Secrets: Anecdotes from a Funeral Director gave an informative and amusing account of his previous career.
Women usually know what to expect on the day, and they’ll probably have the appropriate clothes in their wardrobe ready to go. I was consumed by grief on the three funerals I attended in 1999 and didn’t take much in. My knowledge of funerals is mostly informed by watching TV. People get up to speak, and are invariably shouted down as part of a decades-long feud, that will end up in a noisy punch-up outside.
Do you send cards and flowers? I’ve no idea. For one, men only send cards when they’re told to by a woman. Secondly, they only normally send flowers when they’ve done something wrong. I’d just turn up at the church in a dark suit and join the others in the pub afterwards.
As someone who’s prone to finding something funny on every occasion, I’d be bound to smile to myself at some point as some mad, inappropriate, thought came into my head. Colin would understand as he had a naughty schoolboy sense of humour too. I’ll try to stay off the booze before the service, unlike many of the protagonist in TV funerals.
I like to think I was ahead of the others with my accessories. As a fledgling antiques dealer I sourced an antique mourning brooch for the occasion. Mourning jewellery had been worn in Western Europe from the 16th Century, and reached the height of popularity when Queen Victoria mourned the death of her husband Prince Albert in 1861. Brooches made from jet – which is fossilised wood – are very popular. Other materials commonly used include vulcanite, enamel and onyx. The one I’m wearing is a made of jet. Some brooches double as lockets, complete with a picture of the deceased, and perhaps a lock of their hair. The Victorians did macabre well. Mourning jewellery sometimes features inscriptions such as the Latin “Memento Mori”, meaning “Remember You Will Die”.
A week before the event I realised that as the service was taking place in a church, it must involve a burial. I assume that a cremation would take place at a crematorium (thanks, the Bishop of Our Lady of the Bleeding Obvious). I didn’t much fancy standing around staring into a hole. I’ve seen burials on TV too. Someone inevitably throws themselves in, or is pushed in by an adversary.
As it turned out, everything went smoothly. I only had one pint in ‘Spoons before kick-off. The service was a very emotional, yet strangely uplifting. There were no fisticuffs or any unpleasantness. In the pub afterwards I met old friends who I hadn’t seen for 15 – 20 years. I was able to dodge questions about my self-unemployed status, as the day wasn’t about me. Besides, others had fallen into some kind of premature half-arsed retirement too.
The interesting thing was, there was no evidence of any burial taking place. Maybe they outsource that bit out to Amazon or Uber these days? I don’t like the sound of that; depriving traditional hard-working undertakers out of a living. Then again, as Harry would say, it’s a dying trade.
I’ll get my coat…
