Tasmania's Big Freeze continues. I'm waiting for some boffin to announce that it's the coldest spell, or the most days of frost or the shortest hours of daylight or the largest number of skids on the road or some other contrived record. In the meantime, we snuggle under our doona and turn up the heat.
The local Facebook page is full of complaints about freezing taps. Bertine from Number 5 told us the solution is to leave a kitchen tap dripping overnight. I don't know whether this is official Taswater policy or an old wive's tale but she was overjoyed to tell us that, after doing this, she had enough water to have her first shower in three days. We haven't had any frozen taps but Marilyn left our kitchen tap dripping last night 'just in case'.
I'm putting up the second story about someone attending his own funeral, the one I wrote on Wednesday. I think I prefer this version.
OUTSIDER AT A FUNERAL
It’s supposed to be raining at a funeral: not heavy, teeming rain, but steady, persistent rain falling from dull, leaden skies. The sort of rain which sets the mood for a sad experience. But, it was not like that on the day that I was being buried. Instead, the sun was shining, there was a warm, gentle breeze and I could even hear birds whistling in the trees. It was almost as if the elements were setting themselves for a day of happiness, rather than sorrow. And I had been hoping for sorrow.
I was looking forward to seeing all the guests in their dark clothes, stooped shoulders and sad expressions. Is ‘guests’ the right word to describe people at a funeral? Maybe spectators, attendees or, in this case, celebrants. Because I expected there to be some element of celebration. After all, my two brothers and their wives had been anticipating my demise for years and, now that the happy day has come, they’ll find it hard to conceal their satisfaction and yes, even delight.
In the distance, I could hear the sound of approaching vehicles. A nearby gardener who was lethargically poking at some fallen leaves with his rake, lifted his head and moved slowly away from the driveway. Clearly, he had been instructed not to get in the way of grieving family members. I had taken up a position beneath some trees some distance away from the chapel and no one who knew me would have recognised me, dressed as I was in shabby work clothes and floppy hat. It was a long way from my usual hand-tailored suits from Anthony Squires and bespoke shoes from Armani. I didn’t want to be recognised today as my future depended on maintaining the fiction that I was dead. It might have been better if I had kept away, but I couldn’t resist the opportunity of seeing my beloved wife forcing herself to demonstrate her sadness when, in her heart I knew she was crying with joy. That joy would soon change, though, when it came the time for the reading of my will and she heard those words I had carefully chosen; ‘and to my beloved wife I leave the remainder of my estate which the accountants will tell you amounts to ‘bugger-all’.
In about an hour, when the last of the funeral cars has driven off, it will be safe for me to make my way to the airport for the flight to Bangkok where I will start my new life. That gardener down there with the rake has agreed to drive me. I know he won’t talk afterwards as we go back a long way and I know enough about him to make his life miserable. That’s the benefit of being what the police call a ‘crime boss’: everybody bends over backwards to look after you.
The guests have all arrived now and gone into the chapel. The sound of organ music has died away and I can just about hear the solemn tones of Reg who is conducting the service. I wonder if anyone realises that this time last month, Reg was serving time in Risdon Prison for various offences related to fraudulent bank loans. No matter, I could think of no one better than Reg to conduct a service which was all about telling lies in a warm, comforting tone, and making the audience feel better after it. That’s the skill of a confidence man.
I’ve estimated that it will be another twenty minutes before the sermon finishes, the curtain if drawn back and the coffin filled with the remains of a calf which met its fate along the highway slides from view. I thought the calf was a nice touch and we were lucky to find it before the farmer did. Putting bricks in a coffin is lazy and I’m glad we had an alternative.
Idly, I notice a couple of cars driving in through the gates. I suppose it’s inevitable in a place like this where loved ones are laid to rest that there will be frequent visitors. There’s something comforting about standing by the grave of a deceased loved one, or the niche in a wall where his or her ashes are supposed to be interred. I wonder who will come to visit my ashes. Certainly not my wife when she gets the news that I’ve left her nothing but memories. Maybe Reg will come but I suspect he will have forgotten me after the last of my final payment to him has been spent.
That’s funny! Two policemen have got out of that last car to drive through the gates and are running towards me. Something’s gone wrong! Has Reg given me up or has my wife worked it out? I turn to run but there are two more policemen running up behind me. I drop to my knees, totally shattered. My old Mum was right: crime does not pay.
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