Once a month, except in the winter, I meet a group of friends for dinner. They’re all older than I am, mostly in their seventies and eighties, but I have never taken account of age in my friendships and I enjoy their company. This evening was the first get-together of the year, a dozen of us met and we’ve had a good time.
At one point the conversation got onto funerals. Someone was talking about the husband of a friend, who had died recently and the family had not known what sort of send-off he wanted, not even whether it should be burial or cremation. Shirley said “I wouldn’t want to be in the cold and dark with the worms, I’m going to be cremated.” Liz agreed, but wondered if her replacement knees would burn or not. I declared that I hated the thought of being cremated. The only thing worse would be burial at sea. I’d feel far more at home in the earth and I’d feed the worms and things, so would be more eco-friendly. “The thing is,” said another Shirley (there are a lot of women of a certain age called Shirley), it’s the last thing on your mind when someone dies, remembering all they wanted. My father always wanted to donate his eyes, but it was six weeks before anyone thought of it.” “I’m only good for scrap,” said Liz dolefully.
It was a very entertaining evening. The Sage did not come with me but went to his wood-turners’ club (he doesn’t turn, but can often help out by providing wood). He says he had a good time too.