Who Do You Think You Are Kidding...

I hoiked my dark suit out of the wardrobe. I doubt that I've worn it since my father's funeral 20 years ago. We'll see later if it fits.

I won't be wearing a tie. There are limits.

Black shoes? yes, I have a pair of those. I checked yesterday and they don't need polishing.

It's a month since my mother died. It seems ages. The time we lived with her- nearly ten years of ever deepening responsibility- is not what I'm going to dwell upon. It was. It isn't any longer. The image I want to carry through the funeral is the one of her at thirteen (or thereabouts) looking mischievous- the way she was before the world started beating up on her. It's the picture I posted here shortly after she died and which we've put on the front of the service sheet.

She outlived all her contemporaries. We expect a couple of her younger friends to show. Otherwise it'll just be family.

I don't like the way we do funerals in the west. So solemn, so glum. It's as if we didn't actually believe in the life eternal (and of course most of us don't.) There's a place in Africa- I saw the video last year or the year before- where the pall bearers dance their way to the grave. That's what I'd like to see us do over here. The order of service we've constructed isn't too grim- and (the moment I'm most looking forward to) we're going to exit the chapel to Bud Flanagan singing the theme tune to Dad's Army.

My mother spent the war years in uniform- on the south coast- just like Captain Mainwearing and the boys- and who knows how many hours I've spent with her in the living room of the farm watching re-runs of the show...

Who do you think you are kidding, Mr Hitler,
If you think we're on the run...