There’s been a paucity of activity in casa Strachan over the last day or two. Activities such as weekly shopping for provisions, watching the rugby league World Cup final on TV and writing a parody gig review titled Selsey Bill or Bracklesham Bay, Love? , being my sole accomplishments in the last 36 hours or so.
I suppose I did make Saturday’s evening meal, emptied the dishwasher, made the beds, troughed a bag of ‘Sports Mix’ jelly sweets, took my medication, along as watching movies Home Alone 2 and Focus.
You may opine taking my medication can’t really be classed as an activity that filled any significant time within my fairly barren itinerary. However, since becoming entrenched in middle-age, you should see the number of tablets I take!……. Before the kids flew the nest, this heavy daily intake of pharmaceuticals earned me the nickname of Keith Moon.
Additionally, I accept the inclusion of watching two movies, whilst sitting on my ass scoffing jelly candies, wouldn’t ordinarily be deemed an achievement. However, they are chewy sweets that require eating with strict discipline; a great deal of care has to be taken to avoid normal chewing speed on consumption. Otherwise, the breaking down of the candies can manifest in a noise so cacophonous it renders the movie dialogue inaudible…….. On reflection, going forward it may be prudent to start consuming popcorn as my movie accompaniment.
Witnessing the spectacle of the rugby league cup final between England v Australia wasn’t over exerting for me either. I certainly didn’t put in the monumental effort of the 34 warriors who participated in a match of unbelievable intensity, in which the Aussie’s narrowly prevailed.
That being said, though, at the conclusion of the 80 minute game I also perspired profusely and bore the scarlet visage similarly adorned by Sam Burgess, Ryan Hall et al. Mine not from superhuman sporting endeavour, though, moreover a consequence of tension viewing the game in front of me, along with forgetting to take my blood pressure medication at breakfast.
I’ve just had a short sabbatical from penning my words of weekend procrastination. My mum rang me up to discuss (as she’d done with my siblings) where and when to scatter my recently passed dad’s ashes.
It appears the consensus of opinion amongst the family is to undertake the scattering at Temple Newsam park (close to my home), although the time and place within it’s historic grounds are still to be decided.
The intimation I got during the call, was that my mum wishes to have her beloved husband at his final resting place sooner rather than later; possibly even prior to Christmas.
At the conclusion of the call, my wife asked me where I’d like my ashes scattering. With it being something I’ve not really mulled over, I was blind-sided by her question. On reflection, though, (to steal a Les Dawson gag) as her mum wants to dance on my grave, I’ll probably opt to be buried at sea.
To be honest, I’m not even sure I want to be cremated. If I can think of a witty epitaph along the lines of ‘I told you I was ill’ which adorns late comedian Spike Milligan’s tombstone, I may opt to be buried.
Previously, I’ve not put much thought into what I’d like my epitaph to be, but during a recent ponder, the only epiphany’s I could muster were the uninspiring:-
‘Have you seen my slippers, Karen?’, ‘Have you seen my slippers, Jonny?’, or ‘Have you seen my slippers, Rachel?‘
For some unexplained reason, the area of my brain that handles creativity and organising payment of the gas bill seems pretty determined to make reference to slippers on my headstone!…… I’m unsure why that segment of brain appears reticent to have mention of gas bill payments.
With this in mind, it’s unlikely that my epitaph will bear any of the following:-
‘Have you paid the gas bill, Karen?’, ‘Have you paid the gas bill, Jonny?’, or ‘Have you paid the gas bill, Rachel?
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2 kids who've flown the nest, 1 wife whose flown with Jet2. Born at a young age in 1960's Leeds, the author became interested in the literary life when his wife bought him a dog. Having an allergy to dogs, he swapped it for a typewriter. Being unable to train the typewriter to retrieve tennis balls, he reluctantly turned to writing...... Website - www.writesaidfred.org