I was reminded, on reading Stegbeetle’s recent post, of my father’s funeral. Mr Stebbings the gardener came in, the next day, for coffee as usual. “Nearly a tragedy, yesterday, after Mr Malcolm’s funeral” he said. “Oh no, whatever happened?” asked my mother. “One of the gravediggers fell in. All sand and gravel it was, just caved in and, being double depth, they had a hell of a job to get him out before he was buried.” “Oh no, that’s dreadful,” said my mother, nearly in tears. It was only a week since her husband had died of a heart attack, aged 59, in front of her. “Thass true enough,” said Mr Stebbings. “Had it from a witness. Smith the virgin*. He told me so hisself.”
My mother made her excuses and went and cried with laughter instead in another room.