Funerals

Aren't lilies odd? like a set of little dusty saffron canoes, upside down on spraying fountains inside a knickerbocker-glory glass.

It's a pity my Grandpa wasn't alive to see his funeral, he would've loved the pomp and circumstance aspect of it. It was a Roman Catholic affair, lots of "smells and bells" as my neighbour puts it. Clouds of incense were shaken, and holy water from a bizarre brass phallus, was flicked over the coffin, which was covered in a white pall, washed three times by my Mother of course because it wasn't clean. I couldn't help thinking of his stash of magazines as I watched, and about his various habits as I listened to the priest talking about the purification of the spirit.

He really wanted to die, in fact he wanted to die three years ago when my Grandma died, because he'd lost his cook and housekeeper and the person who remembered all the birthdays and kept in touch with all the friends.

There was no eulogy because no one wanted to write one. Sadly for him I suppose, no-one really liked him particularly, not even his family, so the priest (who knew him quite well) said a few words. He managed to get across the image of a grumpy, hard to help, passionless old git with a sweet little old man trapped inside (at least we think there was something nice trapped inside) quite nicely. Priests clearly have hidden skills. Hordes of people, familiar and unfamiliar then proceeded to descend on the house to scoff the food we'd slaved over and presumably to inspect the carpets, because my mother had violently hoovered them to the threads over and over again.

It seems best that he's gone and I suppose I feel vaguely guilty that I can't think of a single thing I'll miss about him at all.