I have a good sense of humour. Not always appropriate in the funeral trade I grant you, but it's a good mechanism for surviving the bad stuff.
So imagine my wry chuckles when I arrived at a crematorium last week. I got there at 2 for a 2:30 service, as I always do (better an hour early than a minute late). I went into the back office, to check with the chapel attendant that all was okay with the music etc. (I love Wesley Music).
One of the bearers was already there. We said hello, I shook his hand and he said "your bugler will be here at 2:15".
I'm sorry - my what?
Yes, we were having The Last Post. Nobody had felt the need to tell me.
In a way, it wasn't a surprise - the man had a military past (his life, like so many others, had been changed by his National Service experience), but nobody had said a word.
I'd had two or three conversations with the funeral arranger. I'd spent the best part of two hours with the chief mourner, drinking tea and finding out about the dear departed, but still no mention of the blinkin' bugler!
Now, I appear to be making a mountain out of a molehill and I genuinely did find it all amusing, but it could have been a problem. This particular crematorium works on a 30-minute cycle, which means you have 20 minutes for your ceremony. And they are strict on this. I've heard it said that if you take more than 22 minutes, they kidnap your children and sell them to the slave trade. I don't have kids, but I'm worried for the cat.
For this particular ceremony, however, a double time slot had been booked, and so we had a bit of leeway, but it could have been so very different.
Another one to chalk up to experience.
I love this job. It makes me laugh.
Saturday 21 March 2009
Monday 2 March 2009
A brief post and a comedy moment.
Well, after my last rant about needing more work, I've had it coming out of my ears!
I've now done a total of 55 funerals, with two booked for this week.
I still can't get used to the unpredictable nature of this work (I've always had "steady", boring jobs), but that's the nature of the beast.
This will be a short post, as I haven't much to say just now, but I did have a lovely comedy moment.
We had the ceremony of a much loved and elderly gentleman. He was a solid sort of chap who, in his peak had looked after three allotments at once and fed the family all summer. His daughter chose Kipling's "The Glory of the Garden" (I have a slightly adapted version, taking the god out of it) to be read. The deceased's grandson read the poem very clearly and it was well received.
Afterwards, standing at the flower terrace (I always hang around afterwards, having been disgusted at a family funeral once by the vicar being in his car and half way down the drive before we'd even read the card on the floral tribute), I congratulated the grandson on his delivery of the poem.
A lady came up to him and started to speak, so I stepped slightly to one side. She then came up to me and asked "And who are you?"
"I conducted the ceremony."
"Oh yes, of course you did".
Being a giggler, I was actually proud that I didn't burst out laughing. In fairness, this lady's vision is not strong, but once she heard my voice, she recognised me.
To be honest, I found it funny, as I had been standing there for the best part of half an hour, rattling on about life, the universe, everything and, of course, the dear departed.
However, I was really pleased that she hadn't realised who I was. It doesn't matter who I am (unless someone wants a celebrant, then my name can be emblazoned in big letters). It matters who the deceased was, and it matters that we gave him a meaningful and appropriate send off.
I often think "it's not about you" when I meet family members, but I certainly think that about my own part in the proceedings.
A while ago I met someone, through some other work that I do and he was talking about his good friend who had died last year. I pieced bits of the conversation together and realised that this had been my fourth funeral. The chap I'd met hadn't recognised me at all, but he remembered what a good funeral it was.
Job done.
I've now done a total of 55 funerals, with two booked for this week.
I still can't get used to the unpredictable nature of this work (I've always had "steady", boring jobs), but that's the nature of the beast.
This will be a short post, as I haven't much to say just now, but I did have a lovely comedy moment.
We had the ceremony of a much loved and elderly gentleman. He was a solid sort of chap who, in his peak had looked after three allotments at once and fed the family all summer. His daughter chose Kipling's "The Glory of the Garden" (I have a slightly adapted version, taking the god out of it) to be read. The deceased's grandson read the poem very clearly and it was well received.
Afterwards, standing at the flower terrace (I always hang around afterwards, having been disgusted at a family funeral once by the vicar being in his car and half way down the drive before we'd even read the card on the floral tribute), I congratulated the grandson on his delivery of the poem.
A lady came up to him and started to speak, so I stepped slightly to one side. She then came up to me and asked "And who are you?"
"I conducted the ceremony."
"Oh yes, of course you did".
Being a giggler, I was actually proud that I didn't burst out laughing. In fairness, this lady's vision is not strong, but once she heard my voice, she recognised me.
To be honest, I found it funny, as I had been standing there for the best part of half an hour, rattling on about life, the universe, everything and, of course, the dear departed.
However, I was really pleased that she hadn't realised who I was. It doesn't matter who I am (unless someone wants a celebrant, then my name can be emblazoned in big letters). It matters who the deceased was, and it matters that we gave him a meaningful and appropriate send off.
I often think "it's not about you" when I meet family members, but I certainly think that about my own part in the proceedings.
A while ago I met someone, through some other work that I do and he was talking about his good friend who had died last year. I pieced bits of the conversation together and realised that this had been my fourth funeral. The chap I'd met hadn't recognised me at all, but he remembered what a good funeral it was.
Job done.
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