I’m interrupting this interlude to bring you some normal programming.
I had to take a little break there, while I didn’t feel particularly funny (and for some reason became allergic to the internet). That’s not to say that nothing is funny after someone dies. Grief apparently has a sense of humour too. The humour is just very different – and it’s a lot like a sit-com in places.
There was the part of the funeral homily my follically challenged Dad would have appreciated most, when all the women in the congregation were told to stop dyeing their hair. The look on the face of the guy outside the crematorium who had to run after me to tell me he’d broken the coffin plate.
Then there was the man himself, the dearly departed, whose great wit was remembered and recounted at great length throughout the period I like to call the…
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