We've all been there.
The ceremony has gone well. The speakers have made heartfelt tributes and the whole thing has flowed beautifully.
On the way out of the flower terrace, every other person has stopped to shake my hand and praise my words, my voice, the way that I put things together.
I'm getting used to this enormous massage to my ego, when another mourner comes towards me with a determined look on his face.
I glance up with a mixture of modesty, sympathy and interest (a look that I've been working on), as he says:
"Is there a toilet here?"
And thus my true role in the proceedings is brought back to me.
Another of those people who do me good.
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1 comment:
Ha!
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