Bitch on the Blog

April 20, 2011

Home sweet home

Filed under: Happiness — bitchontheblog @ 18:17

Have just come back in. Little is more heavenly to me than being on my home turf. I love home. It’s not tied to geography. I’d be happy on the moon (I think); home being where stamp of my identity is.

Which is why I do not look forward to my burial. Only comfort being that I won’t know about it. I am not claustrophic (ie I will enter a lift and hope for the best) but I do not like confined spaces. My son will NOT enter confined spaces and has preferred stairs from when he was tiny. I only once forced him into a lift and I still hate myself for it (about 16 years on); never shall I forget the look on his face and the quivering lip. What sort of parent am I? Before I could reverse decision the doors had closed and we were on the way up. After that we always climbed stairs instead. Yes, so there you are – in your coffin. Brilliant. That’s ok. Fresh air. Then they put the lid on. Not so ok. In fact, awful. Compound this: Your coffin lowered into a pretty narrow passage. If you were still alive you could just about live with that. But, since you are not [alive], your loving mourners will drop handfuls of earth on lid of your coffin. Which not only adds to feeling suffocated but makes a ghastly noise till the first ten or fifteen mourners have passed. Lets gloss over the part when all your dearest depart to water your sunken head with whiskey and the grave diggers fill the rest of your hole.

Now I know that this will cut no ice with the Americans amongst you, or Ramana, since you will all go up the chimney. I personally think burning is a cop out. Earth and dust, maggots and all the gore – being more my thing. I am also big on recycling. Can’t bear thinking about it. Why am I even writing about this? One of the reasons that death, dying and undertaking, rituals connected with demise are a big subject of my studies. Don’t ask. Also my parents not being particularly squeemish about their own demise we do discuss the day after the life before. Frankly. My own son has not yet acquired taste for these matters. But, of course, he’ll have to deal with mine some day.

I shall be so rubbish at dying. I hope no one will witness the mess I’ll make of it.



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