"You're looking swell,Dolly".............
When I was small(er) Siobhan used to say "that one was vaccinated with a gramophone needle" as my ability to hold forth on various and disparate topics since I could form sentences, was legendary. My first words were not "Mama" or "Dada" .
As they were househunting with me strapped in a harness as a precocious toddler in the car they heard a voice coming from the back seat where I said - "dat lubby house oba dey".
Siobhan remarked that I had "put the heart crossways in her".
Today I have talked myself up hill and down dale and into a cocked hat.
I should be exhausted but am high on nervous tension, emotion and adrenaline.
It all started this am when M arrived to pick me up.
@ 7.00 !!!
I was dithering in the kitchen about footwear when she honked the horn. Could I do "Double-Inn Citaay" in heels. The Mini Slippertons called but I refused their fur lined flat pleas and zipped on my boots. I am wearing a dress that a country woman might have worn in the 50's. Navy with a pink flower.
It made me look like a pregnant toddler and I teamed that with navy tights, boot socks, and a military style trench coat, (Navy with silver buttons) and topped it all off with a soft leather Trilby tipped at a rakish angle.
I am going to a funeral.
So of course it seems perfectly rational to bring my work bag with diary, notebook, and dictaphone.
It all went swimmingly till Avoca.
After a caffeine break M insists that I google the city and buses so as I know where I am going, and more importantly how to get back. She pulls up at the bus stop and shouts "Go, Go, GO " as if we were storming the beaches at Normandy or jumping out an aeroplane door.
I skid through the rush hour traffic in the rain and leap aboard the bus as the door is closing.
"City Centre please" I say - and eyeing the notice about exact fares only, hurl the contents of my purse into the dish till a ticket comes out.
I turn around and face the ENTIRE bus and have to sit mortified in the bucket chair facing them. Their eyes are boring into me and I feel like shouting "I'm up from the country you know" as they stare, but refrain and spend the journey into the city pretending to be mesmerised by the view through the steamed up window .
Of course I get off (out of sheer politeness) 5 stops too early and have to walk around the gaff reading place names like a tourist. I almost began speaking with a german accent for the craic.
A lovely man helped me by doing stuff with his Blackberry as you do. I wasn't listening to the numbers he reeled off as I was trying to read the writing on the notes in his bag.
Nosy much?
I reeled around the streets in the rain for a while and then decided to shit or get off the pot. Throwing myself on the mercy of and at the feet of various strangers, I walked to another bus stop at the other side of the city. The name of the road the church is on - is on the sign.
Hurrah!
I have made a new friend. She has white hair and a long black coat. She is a widow who downsized and she knows exaactly where I am going. She will help me.
Her name is Dolly.
The name of the lady whose funeral I am trying to attend is Dolly.
Oh, yeee of little faith.
We drive for miles. She goes up to tell the driver where exactly I am getting off. It is the very last stop. I am alone on the bus bar the driver. He shows me the short cut through the estate and says he will pray for Dolly. I meet a man walking a japanese poodle through the estate. He tells me his life story and leads me to the church.
I am early.
Joy of joys there is a coffee shop beside it. I repair to the toilets to repair my boat race. And then casually sit with my Americano reading. After half an hour I glance idly at the menu and read the address printed on the bottom.
Sweet Merciful Christ, I am at the wrong church!
After the assistant stopped laughing she tells me I will need a cab. The woman at the table across says I will never get there, as she sighs into her tea. The funeral directors outside smoking by the empty hearse - when they stop laughing- announce it is Mrs Byrnes funeral .
As they were househunting with me strapped in a harness as a precocious toddler in the car they heard a voice coming from the back seat where I said - "dat lubby house oba dey".
Siobhan remarked that I had "put the heart crossways in her".
Today I have talked myself up hill and down dale and into a cocked hat.
I should be exhausted but am high on nervous tension, emotion and adrenaline.
It all started this am when M arrived to pick me up.
@ 7.00 !!!
I was dithering in the kitchen about footwear when she honked the horn. Could I do "Double-Inn Citaay" in heels. The Mini Slippertons called but I refused their fur lined flat pleas and zipped on my boots. I am wearing a dress that a country woman might have worn in the 50's. Navy with a pink flower.
It made me look like a pregnant toddler and I teamed that with navy tights, boot socks, and a military style trench coat, (Navy with silver buttons) and topped it all off with a soft leather Trilby tipped at a rakish angle.
I am going to a funeral.
So of course it seems perfectly rational to bring my work bag with diary, notebook, and dictaphone.
It all went swimmingly till Avoca.
After a caffeine break M insists that I google the city and buses so as I know where I am going, and more importantly how to get back. She pulls up at the bus stop and shouts "Go, Go, GO " as if we were storming the beaches at Normandy or jumping out an aeroplane door.
I skid through the rush hour traffic in the rain and leap aboard the bus as the door is closing.
"City Centre please" I say - and eyeing the notice about exact fares only, hurl the contents of my purse into the dish till a ticket comes out.
I turn around and face the ENTIRE bus and have to sit mortified in the bucket chair facing them. Their eyes are boring into me and I feel like shouting "I'm up from the country you know" as they stare, but refrain and spend the journey into the city pretending to be mesmerised by the view through the steamed up window .
Of course I get off (out of sheer politeness) 5 stops too early and have to walk around the gaff reading place names like a tourist. I almost began speaking with a german accent for the craic.
A lovely man helped me by doing stuff with his Blackberry as you do. I wasn't listening to the numbers he reeled off as I was trying to read the writing on the notes in his bag.
Nosy much?
I reeled around the streets in the rain for a while and then decided to shit or get off the pot. Throwing myself on the mercy of and at the feet of various strangers, I walked to another bus stop at the other side of the city. The name of the road the church is on - is on the sign.
Hurrah!
I have made a new friend. She has white hair and a long black coat. She is a widow who downsized and she knows exaactly where I am going. She will help me.
Her name is Dolly.
The name of the lady whose funeral I am trying to attend is Dolly.
Oh, yeee of little faith.
We drive for miles. She goes up to tell the driver where exactly I am getting off. It is the very last stop. I am alone on the bus bar the driver. He shows me the short cut through the estate and says he will pray for Dolly. I meet a man walking a japanese poodle through the estate. He tells me his life story and leads me to the church.
I am early.
Joy of joys there is a coffee shop beside it. I repair to the toilets to repair my boat race. And then casually sit with my Americano reading. After half an hour I glance idly at the menu and read the address printed on the bottom.
Sweet Merciful Christ, I am at the wrong church!
After the assistant stopped laughing she tells me I will need a cab. The woman at the table across says I will never get there, as she sighs into her tea. The funeral directors outside smoking by the empty hearse - when they stop laughing- announce it is Mrs Byrnes funeral .
NO", I need Dolly " I pant and start running blindly ( down the right road accidentally) until the men fixing the road at the lights tell me to go around "The Kestrel" and then down and left and right and straight and left. I run holding my hat on and dont stop till I skid into the back of the REAL church. I am in a lather. People are staring again.
I kneel.
What happened in there over the next hour as a family grieved at the sudden shocking departure of a beloved Mother, Grandmother, Sister and Friend was beautiful, poignant and an affirmation of life, love, tenderness and support, and something they should be very proud of. I was proud to attend.
This was the first time I had attended a Cremation and in the beautiful surroundings of Mount Jerome, as the strains of the music prefaced the slow sliding of the curtains for the very last time, I took the proffered tissue from the woman beside me and said goodbye to Dolly in a very small voice.
Now I can visualise a chorus line of angels highkicking in burlesque outfits singing "Well, HELLO Dolly! it's so nice to have you back where you belong!" ....................
I told all of this (and more) to Siobhan tonight and then sang "Amazing Grace".
I think I may be overtired. ((( ^ - ^ )))
I kneel.
What happened in there over the next hour as a family grieved at the sudden shocking departure of a beloved Mother, Grandmother, Sister and Friend was beautiful, poignant and an affirmation of life, love, tenderness and support, and something they should be very proud of. I was proud to attend.
This was the first time I had attended a Cremation and in the beautiful surroundings of Mount Jerome, as the strains of the music prefaced the slow sliding of the curtains for the very last time, I took the proffered tissue from the woman beside me and said goodbye to Dolly in a very small voice.
Now I can visualise a chorus line of angels highkicking in burlesque outfits singing "Well, HELLO Dolly! it's so nice to have you back where you belong!" ....................
I told all of this (and more) to Siobhan tonight and then sang "Amazing Grace".
I think I may be overtired. ((( ^ - ^ )))
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