A Funferal

One of James Joyce’s more delightful puns in ‘Ulysses’ was the word ‘funferal’, which I guess sums up the Irish approach to funerals.  We Brits tend to be a bit more stiff upper-lip, like this:


– except when it’s a Home Edder’s funeral at the Quaker Meeting House, in which case we ain’t.  Mike Samson was 51; he was a home-educating dad and a very dedicated parent.  He and his son Zeb were like bookends: they dressed alike, looked alike and both wore their hair long; and these facts, along with many other memories, were brought out during the ceremony.  It was a nice balance of formal and informal, with space for the Quaker approach of silence and individual witness, as well as some singing and a couple of readings.  It was very moving and a good coming-together of friends, Friends and family.  I hope it was a comfort to them, Zeb especially – and it set me thinking, as these events always do, about funerals.  I thought about what might happen if (God forbid) Mark were to die – I mean to die soon, obviously we all have to die some time – and how I’d cope with that; and then I thought about what I might like at my own funeral.  So in case I pop off suddenly, here’s a selection of things I’d like people to say:

She did not suffer in silence; she complained loud and long about being ill

she had a good sense of humour

She was a pain in the arse

she liked the songs of Leonard Cohen

She was a complete control-freak and wanted to organise her own funeral

Obviously I’d like the church (or wherever) to be packed to the rafters and for everyone to be sobbing uncontrollably.  There again, they do say you should be careful what you wish for…

Go in peace, Mike.  You died too young and we will miss you.


Kirk out


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