Yet another funeral

No. Not THAT one. I’m talking about the funeral yesterday of my uncle-in-law, Hubby’s dad’s brother, who was also his Godfather. 

We were at the wake after the service when a friend texted me to say that doctors were concerned for Lilibet’s health. I thought my sister might have more information for various reasons, so I texted her, to which she responded: “She’s at the departure gate waiting for the final call.” Gee thanks, Sis, for the aviation analogy!

Back to the funeral. (NO! NOT that one.) When I was younger, I needed a plentiful wardrobe to see me through several weddings and christenings each year. Nowadays, I only need two smart black dresses – one for warm funerals and one for cooler ones. Thursday’s was my third this year, after that of a friendly acquaintance in January and of course Mum’s in May.

On a whim, I decided not to wear black and spent ages searching in the wardrobes, holding things up in front of the mirror, trying stuff on, and comparing different shoes, until I opted for navy blue (albeit with bright orange polka dots), and a navy-blue jacket that just about fastens at the front, which is an improvement on this time last year, when I couldn’t even get my arms into it.

Hubby’s uncle was a lovely chap. He was in his 80s and had been ill for a while. I’ll always remember him as a gentle giant with a languid wit. Can’t think of any other way to describe it. He and his wife had two kids, four grandkids and oodles of nephews and great-nephews, nieces and great-nieces. The epitome of a family man, there was nothing he liked better than large gatherings to celebrate milestone birthdays.

I, on the other hand, used to dread them. There were always too many kids at too many awkward ages, being too noisy, messy, smelly or just too awkward. But there was no doubting that he was in his element.

At the cremation service and afterwards at the wake, there was a steady stream of photos on show. Some included Hubby’s Dad, and his Mum who was staying with us for a few days. She seemed to be enjoying the day in a reflective, camaraderie kind of way, but news of Lilibet’s death after we got home melted her stoicism. We'd previously said we’d toast Uncle’s memory that evening with a glass of Tio Pepe, his favourite tipple – my Dad’s too – but my drink ended up looking (and tasting) suspiciously like a large gin and tonic.

The previous evening, Hubby and I had been planning his mum's funeral over supper, despite the fact she was sitting at the table with us. Nevertheless, she liked the sound of my suggestion that we get Pam Ayres (they’re friendly) to write a poem for the occasion.

No doubt I’ll watch Lilibet’s funeral, like I did Philip’s and all ‘state’ occasions, with a tut-tut here and a tut-tut there, boasting about how I’d have done it differently (i.e. better).

I’m already half-way to planning my own funeral. Not only do I have a shortlist of music (here), but I know what I want to wear on the day – my green jumpsuit that I’ve worn to the pub, to Henley, the supermarket … everywhere really. It’s sooooooo flattering. Hubby said he was fed up seeing it, until he recognised that oh-well-I’d-better-buy-something-new look on my face.

As for the presiding vicar, I really ought to ask my Revd sister-in-law, who did us all proud at Mum’s, but instead I think I’ll plump for my latest pin-up, Father Calvin Robinson.

Yup. It’ll be a stonking funeral. (No. Not THAT one.)