Unlike how I remember them, they're both green now- not an extra-terrestrial green, but a soon-to-be-sub terrestrial green. A sort of forestry evergreen, said to represent their eternal futures as crocodile coloured cuboids full of sandpit.
Unperturbed by their lack of existence, the gracious guests they are, they have provided entertainment in bucket loads. They have sat at family dinners- on the table, apparently robbed of decent manners by death. They have been placed on laps of family members sitting on the couch like an affectionate cat- less Persian and more person. Yes, they have even been shaken beside our ears, like a child shaking a Kinder surprise- vigour increasing in proportion with curiosity about what's inside.
This has been going on for years now. Procrastination extends to reach even the burial of ashes it would seem. But now, their time as the freeloaders of the family has come to an end. Off you go, bon voyage, hope the worms don't bite.
Unfortunately, doing so comes with a bill that you would not reasonably believe unless you'd had the misfortune of paying one yourself. Picture a hole in the ground, big enough for a shoebox or two. The sort of thing you could whip up with a shovel, mediocre fitness, and fifteen minutes. Now picture yourself handing over five figures for it. Can you see it?
Neither can I, but I still believe it, and as I find myself on the right side of the bill, my only job is to shake my head in disbelief and plan what I would do with the money instead, were it my own funeral.
Now don't be alarmed. Plotting your own funeral is completely healthy, normal behaviour, according to what I tell myself as I lay awake at night planning my funeral. It doesn't mean I plan on having it anytime soon. Instead it means I have an unhealthy obsession with planning.
Which brings me back to my back my final wishes and will. Find a local elderly man selling his broken-down old Honda Civic from at least ten years prior to my birth. Pay him a stiff sum above the asking price. Then strap my stiff corpse into the back seat, tie a brick to the pedal, and fire me off the end of the New Brighton pier using whatever momentum the old rust box can gather from within. Use the remainder of my estate to remedy whatever situation may arise with Environment Canterbury, and then head to the pub.
Because good god, that would be a significantly more productive use of the funds than hiring an overpriced room to sit around and weep in while some old guy I've never met says nice things he doesn't mean about me, then burning me in a box you only just bought and which cost more than the Honda Civic would, then scattering my ashes over the unsuspecting surfers below the pier in a "get the bloody hell off me" moment to rival that drink driving advert. Oh, and a more economical use of funds, according to my head maths.
Do not, I repeat, do not waste your time and money on my funeral, because I will not be there, and nor would I want to be. The savouries will be lukewarm. The tea will be as well. Both will be outrageously overpriced, positioned at the ample opportunity to take advantage of grief-stricken families with other things to worry about than how they'll afford it all. If you're going to pay that much money for a party, then there ought to be French champagne, strobe lights, and a live DJ- in which case I will be attending.
Or send me down the traditional route if you wish. It's your funeral.
