Disservice

Went to Southwark Cathedral before the meeting. I love the Shakespeare windows, one for comedies, one for tragedies which includes an excellent stained glass bat, and one dedicated to the Tempest. They were preparing for a recital, and the music was very sweet. I put a donation in some tin or other for a candle, and left one for him. Everything before this felt so loud, it hurt; and my vision seemed oddly intense. The train had passed a field full of purple buddleia, and then a station full of black topped lights; and somehow they seemed to share a recurring pattern of objects. It was like one of those images you imagine would be an amazing photo; then you take it and everyone wonders what the hell caught your attention.

After Southwark Cathedral I went down to the Golden Hind and wandered along the Thames towards the Globe. And then, because I couldn't delay any longer, made my way to the George at Borough, an old coaching inn currently dedicated to the worship of Wimbledon.

To my surprise, She Who Does Not Visit was not only present, but determined to spread good will. She was a boon to the discussion, which is more than can be said for me at first. I was taciturn because I just didn't want to be there at all. Then we all tried hard and the result was an easier afternoon.I can't fault her for her perseverance in lightening the atmosphere; It was good that she was there.

Elvis Diary wants to make the funeral so beautiful for him. I just keep seeing his face and it makes me sad.

Clapham to Avalon

Then saw they how there hove a dusky barge
Dark as a funeral scarf from stem to stern,
Beneath them; and descending they were ware
That all the decks were dense with stately forms
Black-stoled, black-hooded, like a dream—by these
Three Queens with crowns of gold—and from them rose
A cry that shiver'd to the tingling stars,
And, as it were one voice, an agony
Of lamentation, like a wind, that shrills
All night in a waste land, where no one comes,
Or hath come, since the making of the world. (Morte D'Arthur, Tennyson)

Such has been Elvis Diary's inspiration for our farewell to Mark. She wants beauty and poetry and a smooth movement throughout, like the words gliding together in a poem of exquisite taste, a tribute to our friend.

I voice now a fear that it may become something other. Our cd burner is b*ggered so my bro is putting the funeral music together - I'll have to check it, make sure he hasn't added Always Look On The Bright Side or the Addams Family Theme (his personal favourite). I will pop around there as soon as he's home...and when the rain stops.

People may not be able to get to the crematorium because of the strike. There will be something so strange about Elvis Diary's plans to give Mark a grand send off if only a few people get there. It won't matter really, not at the heart of it, but her vision is of all Mark's friends clapping their hands in celebration of him...in fact, that's what she wants to happen at the beginning. The idea is that as the coffin enters, everyone will applaud in welcome. There will be a certain pathos to the sound if there's only a smattering of us there to do it.

Some of us may be wearing flower tiaras. It's a very kind offer from She Who Never Visits. Now I can see how, if we're to do that whole regal Queen of Avalon thing some kind of headdress might be excellent, but it's awfully easy for head-dresses to come a cropper. Silver tiaras can make you look like you've raided Claire's Accessories. Crowns can slip around your head haplessly...Up too high they tilt, down too low they eat your eyebrows. And flower head-dresses... well, I am not sure they work for anyone other than bridesmaids or extremely beautiful women, but even if they do, I'm definitely not blessed and have never been able to keep a flower in my hair, on account of fidgeting, and betrayal by hair clips. There's a distinct likelihood that whatever I wear will ping out and ricochet off some unsuspecting pall-bearer's face, forcing him to trip and crash the cavalcade into headlong ruin in the aisles. No-one will be blaming the strike for our funeral's problems then.

To add to this, the lugubrious best fried wishes to not only recite a hymn to Hecate but add a personal eulogy followed by a hymn to Tyche. We've only got half an hour. Also, he wishes to regale the company with his story of sighting Mark's nethers; and is only half deterred by the knowledge that the deceased's sister will be present

At this rate, the afternoon will certainly be memorable; between strikes, possible music gaffes, strange head-dresses and tales of tackle, there is a good chance that we'll make our friend laugh loud enough to perturb more solemn angels. I know it's not the effect we are hoping for; we'll try to make it beautiful, but if mirth is all we can manage, I hope he'll grin and forgive us.

"Humanity doesn't pay the bills."

I read the above gem in today's Guardian.

It made me remember Thatcher's comment back in the early 80s: 'Economics is the method; the object is to change the soul.'

Maybe she did it, maybe she fulfilled Yeats' vision of that which slouched towards Bethlehem to be born.

It looks no prettier grown up.