Death, Where is Thy Sting?

First thing Monday morning he was down at the local. Funeral Parlour. The warm sunny morning seemed at odds with his intentions of arranging for his demise plans. Too cheerful by far. He entered the establishment, albeit with the aid of a stick.

The receptionist was still warming up her computer.

"I've come to arrange my funeral " he told her. A strange statement, sparcly used, unless you believe in reincarnation.

She smiled in a mournful manner, as befitted her position.

"I will, just get my manager, Mr Curruther's for you sir. Please take a seat."

The aforesaid gentleman appeared from an office in the rear and ushered me inside.

Tall, sallow skin, black,: suit, tie and shoes in contrast to a white shirt with starched collar. Sombre respectful in demeanour, about forty five with long jowls and what appeared to be dentures.

I thought to myself that he was likely to be a real bundle of laughs on his night out !!

Suitably seated in his office, he proceeded with his spiel regards his firm's funeral services, mainly burials and how they were environmentally friendly. I could not help but reflect how on the occasion of Queen Victoria's funeral, George Bernard Shaw had written to "The Times" recommending a cardboard degradable coffin, lowered into a suitable hole and covered with quicklime.


Burial was the last thing I wanted, having seen the Kill Bill film where the heriorine was buried alive. Croaking is one thing. Waking up six feet under, no thanks.