One funeral and a supermarket
More than a week and no blog. The time is flying by. Last Monday was a complete blur. We gave ourselves loads of time to get to Dorset and were doing so well that we stopped for a coffee at Exeter services. The coffee was very hot, so we waited for it to cool a little ... and suddenly realised we might be late if we didn't get a move on. A funeral is probably the worst thing to be late to, don't you think? Odd really, as it actually is too late, full stop, but there you are.
We roared past all obstructing vehicles including the obligatory tractor and trailer and arrived in Shipton Gorge with about five minutes to spare. Ended up parking opposite the house George and Daphne used to live in, which was a bit bizarre, and sprinting up the path to the church on top of the hill. Very Hugh Grant when you think about it.
Opened the church door with a feeling of triumph - made it! - to be faced with rows of people sitting quietly and wearing black. Almost a physical shock and an abrupt change of mood. I suddenly wanted to cry, well, howl actually and you don't do that at an English funeral, do you? It was a moving service; I don't think it could have been better in any way. Well, actually the vicar could have been a bit more subtle in his delivery, but that would have made it unbearable. Perhaps he's used to a large church.
And then on to the 'thing'. Why is there no name for the event which happens after the funeral? It's not a wake, 'reception' seems too much associated with weddings, and nobody would call it a party. So what is it? Whatever it's called, it was good and strange to see my cousins again, not to mention exhausting. It had started to rain by the time we hit the road and so poor Andy had a foul drive back, apart from the break for Waitrose at Okehampton, of course. I don't think either of us was particularly in the mood for superior food browsing though, and we were glad to get home and stick a pierce-and-bake in the oven.
Needless to say, Tuesday morning and the alarm clock came round far too quickly.
We roared past all obstructing vehicles including the obligatory tractor and trailer and arrived in Shipton Gorge with about five minutes to spare. Ended up parking opposite the house George and Daphne used to live in, which was a bit bizarre, and sprinting up the path to the church on top of the hill. Very Hugh Grant when you think about it.
Opened the church door with a feeling of triumph - made it! - to be faced with rows of people sitting quietly and wearing black. Almost a physical shock and an abrupt change of mood. I suddenly wanted to cry, well, howl actually and you don't do that at an English funeral, do you? It was a moving service; I don't think it could have been better in any way. Well, actually the vicar could have been a bit more subtle in his delivery, but that would have made it unbearable. Perhaps he's used to a large church.
And then on to the 'thing'. Why is there no name for the event which happens after the funeral? It's not a wake, 'reception' seems too much associated with weddings, and nobody would call it a party. So what is it? Whatever it's called, it was good and strange to see my cousins again, not to mention exhausting. It had started to rain by the time we hit the road and so poor Andy had a foul drive back, apart from the break for Waitrose at Okehampton, of course. I don't think either of us was particularly in the mood for superior food browsing though, and we were glad to get home and stick a pierce-and-bake in the oven.
Needless to say, Tuesday morning and the alarm clock came round far too quickly.
posted by A Bed and a Toothbrush at 8:58 AM
0 Comments:
Post a Comment
<< Home