My funeral

Posted by dulwichmum on Sat 31 March 2007

James’ great aunt Alice passed away this week. What a terrible loss, she was a very influential part of our family and a true lady – no really, she was Lady Alice.

A colleague from work died recently, and was laid out in her wet suit, ready for one of the dives she enjoyed so much. How very embarrassing for her! I couldn’t keep a straight face at the funeral home.

Words cannot express the emotion I experienced when I saw the gas bottle and mask leaning by the side of the coffin stand. If the intention was to put the air bottle on her back for eternity, it would surely cause an explosion in the crematorium, or if they intended to bury her remains with the gas bottle, perhaps they would have found it more convenient to put her in the coffin lying face down, otherwise she would just look odd in the coffin with her torso trussed up in the air.

I am led to believe that gas bottles are rather heavy, how embarrassing to have the poll bearers staggering under the weight of your coffin! Tears just rolled down my face, I thought I was going to die myself…

Darling Max became very distressed recently, when he saw one of those dreadful horse drawn black funeral carriages, galloping down Park Hall Road to Norwood Cemetery. He asked me why the baddies were taking away the dead person, and I know what he meant. It was like a scene from something by Bram Stoker, the great black feather plumes on the horses heads!

No, I would like a long sleek modern Mercedes hearse. And, I think I should be buried in my wedding dress. It is an enormous Vera Wang creation, and cost a small fortune. I shall have no opportunity to wear it again, and I did look fabulous in it, although it was an enormous dress! I would hate to have a huge coffin shaped like a Dairylea triangle…

Actually no, I think I should like my coffin to look minute, just tiny. Perhaps I should be buried in a simple black Prada shift dress with a small platinum crucifix on a chain around my neck – that puritanical look might fool the Lord himself into believing I was a modest motherly sort, although I would like a small ‘viewing window’ in my coffin, so that the mourners can view my fabulous shoes.

Perhaps my coffin should be white, like a child’s, or wenge, and plain with no embellishments. I should be cremated secretly first actually, and have a burial ceremony for the tiny coffin containing my ashes, so that everyone can admire how small and light I will be…

I would like a selection of young choristers from Southwark Cathedral, their voices breaking with emotion as they sing. I would also like lots of speeches about how lovely I was, and lots of undignified wailing and crying, arum lilies everywhere, terribly tasteful, just like that film Imitation of life?

Did I tell you great aunt Alice left Freya an enormous white gold and 3.5 ct sapphire and diamond ring? I shall naturally be wearing it for safe keeping until Freya is twenty one …, or thirty five. I loved Aunt Alice, what a loss.

I wonder if I could have earrings made to match?

Grandma Elizabeth is sick with grief…

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 Calm

Posted by dulwichmum on Fri 30 March 2007

I took a career break when the children were babies, and I have never worked so hard in my entire life. Talk about “out of the frying pan and into the fire!”

When I was at home I thought that I was loosing my mind, but now upon reflection I can see that I was simply suffering from exhaustion. Towards the end of the third year, James was at his wits end and insisted that I needed help.

He arranged for us to have an au pair, and things improved substantially.

At that time I was completely in awe of my friend Muriel who was ever calm while her two children raged all over SE21. They were indeed the talk of Dulwich. I so envied her serenity, and was sure that I would die from an anxiety attack on more than one occasion when we were out together.

Muriel was quite accustomed to being asked to leave Cafe Rouge, the coffee shop in Dulwich Park, Pizza Express, and every other establishment in the environs. She assured me that it was all the fault of the intolerant, un-childfriendly shop holders, and not the outrageous, unsanctioned behaviour of her offspring.

I remember one afternoon in particular in Cafe Rouge, when Poppy occupied herself by opening all of the paper sugar straws, and poured their contents onto the great pyramid of cushions which she had constructed on the floor. It was only when Poppy introduced her chocolate milk into the mix that the sweet manager eventually intervened…

At this point, little Arthur was standing on the table next to ours singing “Wind the bobbin up”, much to the horror of the customers trying to drink their coffee at that very table. Muriel tutted and accused, pulled faces and marched out without leaving a tip.

I knew then, that our friendship was doomed. I found socialising with Muriel and her two darlings far too stressful. More stressful than being alone with my babies in the house on a rainey day – baking.

I have never found unruly behaviour from children acceptable. When my two darlings socialise with children who have no boundaries, it becomes doubly difficult to expect good behaviour from them. They want to run free like their chums, and resent me for expecting restraint from them. It becomes an awkward situation all around.

Muriel always lectured me that I was too controlling of my children, not allowing their youthful exuberance to flow freely. I remember the time she watched my babies for me so that I could go to my GP to discuss my anxiety levels. When I returned to collect them, she was sitting on the floor of her living room demonstrating to the darlings how to light matches efficiently. “It is a valuable life skill“, she informed me. At that point, the oldest of these little children was just four.

On the final occasion that I spent time with Muriel, she was chopping vegetables in her kitchen, peeling carrots I seem to remember. Arthur was sitting on her chopping board, stabbing an enormous Japanese folded steel Global bread knife into the surface between his knees – while singing “The wheels on the bus”.

It was on that occasion that I noticed the large quantities of prescription drugs on Muriel’s top shelf, Muriel laughed and referred to them as her little pieces of calm.

If Muriel and her husband (both vintage parents) have no control of these poppets now, I dread to think of what is to become of her and her beloved husband when these children become teenagers, bigger than their parents. I suppose they will calm down eventually, and perhaps crave some order and routine? But perhaps not.

I realised when Freya was three years old, that if I was to have any calm in my life I was to avoid the company of Muriel and spend some quiet time resting, back at work full time…

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