Lots of bits and bobs to say about today, a patchwork of bright pink, yellow and peuce. Ah yes, the metaphores confirm it, I'm firmly back in sewing mode.
I bought a paper at the supermarket today. The headline read 'We won't bury Michael without his brain'. It was a bit of sensationalist nonsense, the coroner had retained the brain to run more tests to establish cause of death and the family weren't ready to go ahead with the funeral anyway. At the counter, the shop assastant scanned the page. "Eww", she said "What are they going to do, put it in the coffin beside him?" I didn't reply, not certain if she intended her words as a joke, or if she wanted an answer. No, they would replace it in the scull and cover the wound with some fabric. She continued, "That's disgusting, what do they want his brain for anyway?" I made a non-commital grunt and, feeling nauseous now, stumbled away. Unfortunately, I had already ordered lunch.
The conversation, and something else I had heard lately (I think it might have been Andrew Collins on the Collings & Herrin podcast but I might be wrong) got me thinking. I had heard Collins? count up the number of dead people he had seen. It was very few. I began to add up my own body count. The count starts with Jack, Nan's former husband who died an old man in a Mental Health Hospital. I remember my Mum, very sensibly taking me in to see him and saying that there was nothing to be afraid of and that if I looked this time, I would always be alright about it. I was around fourteen at the time. As it turned out, she was correct, I wasn't traumatised at the time, nor subsequently when I saw my Great Aunt Lily minutes after she had died. This was a little more unpleasant as she was someone I had known and her face had been in its raw state and not sculpted into a mask of peace by undertakers.
In total, I have seen eight people dead. Most of them people I had supported. In a lot of those cases, I dealt with the formalities. It is a complex business, with many small decisions to make, any of which can cause distress. On one occasion, a member of staff had made a floral arrangement that I had transported in my car. I then forgot it was there, so that the arrangement missed the funeral, I was in disgrace. Another time, a member of staff was upset at the thought that the most economical coffin (people with learning disabilities tend not to be wealthy) was made in a light colour laminate. The charity I was working for stumped up the extra £100 for the darker colour. It felt a bit like the debates I used to have with staff about the finish of fitted kitchens. I once stood with a large group of people. It had fallen to me to scatter Ray's ashes, institutionalised from childhood, he had no known family. When it came tome to open the casket, I found the ashes were tightly sealed in plastic. I tried without success to break the seal. Someone went for scissors. It was a long wait.
The last of the dead that I have seen was Great Uncle Stephen. It was the toughest because I had practically grown up with him. There had been an autopsy. There almost always is, cause of death has to be found, and it can't be helped. My Mum was outraged, and there was a further furore when the lab took a postage sized slide of tissue. Strenuous efforts were made to get it back in time for the funeral, it had become the focus of her grief.
Maybe experience has made me a bit detached about the mechanics of the dead, or perhaps it is another of my less pleasant character traits. The way I experience it, once dead, the person has gone. The body is just a shell, poignant, and deserving of respect, but ultimately unimportant. I grieved for the people, not what remained. To be honest, what remained looked only fleetingly like them in any case. In Stephen's case, when shown him in his solid oak coffin (a family tradition of only the best) I had a mad thought that I was being shown another body, it looked so unlike him. His hands were his own but his face was not.
The headline made me weary. Death is an everyday reality. The examination of the dead just as real. The front cover of the Mirror and the reaction of the shop worker I hope don't represent the attitudes of most people. Yet both had left me feeling disconcertingly set apart.
Nina and I went to see Richard Herring at the Hare & Hounds in Birmingham. I had been looking forward to it. The venue has a bit of history, a lot of my heroes have performed there, not least Frank Skinner in his earliest career. Worries about finding it proved unfounded, and there was a great atmosphere. I was a bit jittery having left home in a bad temper, but left feeling good. There was a nice compere, a good opening act who's best gag compared the copying of CD's to the possibilities of developing a machine for copying handbags and then giving the original back to the owner, no harm done. You had to be there. Richard Herring, who is so much my favorite performer of the year, was in stunning form. It was interesting to see his latest show Hitler Mustache in embryonic form. Even at this point, it is stunning. Completely original, intelligent, and crafty. Tellingly, both Nina and I enjoyed it. I'm glad I've booked for my brother Rich and I to see it at the Edinburgh festival.
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