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The Tom-All-Alone Problem

I get sad around this time. On a public level because we're leading up to the Crucifixion; on the personal, because it was in Easter week that Thea, one of my closest friends, died.


A year or so earlier, when she had been in remission, we had bumped into each other on a busy high street Saturday. 

'Right, you,' she had begun, briskly. 'I need you to sing at my funeral. I have a year to live. Now, now - we're concentrating here, not going into pre-mourning. Thank you. You're please going to sing. And not something quiet and maudlin. I don't want to be sitting up there on my cloud and shouting down at you to pull your soppy self together! I want The Holy City. And here's how I want you to sing it...'

She had leaned in and whispered. 

When she stopped me in the Saxmundham Station carpark a year or so later and said that she was now definitely dying - 'And being quick about it, too!' - she reminded me of my promise to sing, then insisted I go behind her husband to make sure he didn't leave her lying out in state in the church, as he was planning. 

'Lying there in full view of everyone, including some people that I won't know. I'd be ashamed. What? No, not in an open casket - who do you think I am, Mother Teresa of Calcutta?' She looked too innocent suddenly. 'Did you know Elton John rewrote "Candle in the Wind" for Mother Teresa's funeral?  "Sandals in the Bin".' Thea always had the naughtiest laugh. 'But still my coffin would be Tom-All-Alone's there in the open to be gawped at. So, Iestyn, please make sure that Jock goes along with my wishes. I want to be cremated. On my own. Oh, lord above, what does that sound like? I'm actually not expecting Jock to cling to my coffin as it goes through the curtain, like a widower form of sati. Just, I need you to make sure I get cremated.' She flapped at me. 'Now, go and get your lift into town before I sign you up to manipulate the colour of the smoke that's going to come out of the crematorium chimney. God knows how you'd get it the exact shade of summer damson that I like...' 


It was the last time I saw her. She was cremated.  I sang The Holy City. 

And, as requested, I sang it fucking thunderously.





#easterweek#funeral#singing#song#church#easter#theholycity#mothertheresa#cremation#humor#life#afterdinnerspeaker#publicspeaker#talks#comedy#blackcomedy#blackhumor
  

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