SERVICE, PLEASE!

Still in the shitbox care home. Neither my GP or the local respiratory team would sign off on a sensible plan to move me, just in case something goes wrong on the journey. It's ridiculous bureaucracy; nobody wants to accept liability on the off chance that something goes wrong when I'm at the furthest point from a hospital, even though it's a given that staying put is not an option. I've had to sign a form saying I understand the risks of moving (though really I don't, I just know I can't stay here!) and then pass two mental capacity tests (one set of questions posed by people from either end)! With all that red tape cut I was due to move today, only someone at the receiving end caught COVID, so they can't take new admissions. I feel like Sisyphus' boulder; scheduled to reach the top of the hill aeons ago yet never quite making it.

I have figured out the perfect funeral service for when I do kick the bucket. It's weird to think of the people who know me most intimately not being there, or knowing that I'm dead. Then again, I won't be in a position to care. So I'll try and capture my vision for it here in advance.

I've only been to one funeral, and I don't remember it lasting too long, so I've narrowed it down to four songs and a joke. I think that's reasonable. It wouldn't be a religious thing, but I've included some God stuff for them that like it.

I imagine it would take place in a crematorium. I don't know who would officiate. There would be a photo of me and behind it a slideshow playing of random photos I took on holiday in Portland; the absolute happiest I've ever been. To signify the beginning of the service my favourite song plays: "Another Girl, Another Planet" by The Only Ones.

The officiant would start by apologising on my behalf for making anyone travel, and that I hoped they took it seriously when I said not to wear anything they felt uncomfortable in or to have made any crazy sacrifices to come. They would tell the following joke:

There's a farmer who attends church every Sunday in a small village, but one weekend in the Autumn he realises that the window he has to harvest his crops ready for market is closing, and he can't afford to give up his Sunday morning, so he stays at home and reaps his harvest.

That afternoon one of the parishioners comes up to him and chastises him for missing a service. The farmer replies that he decided it would be better to be out in his fields thinking about God than in the church thinking about his crops.

The officiant would then point out that I hoped nobody would feel sad or uncomfortable at my funeral, but that I would appreciate them finding some time for me in their thoughts in the following days or weeks, as well as for my surviving family.