My Eulogy: Eccentric Old Lady Takes The Plunge.

I image this scenario, I have chosen to live half way up the mountainside in a rickety old cottage with half a dozen cats for company and a studio where I can fling paint on canvas and call it art. One day, well into my eighties I will decide to go skinny-dipping in March and promptly pass away from heart failure. Either that or I'll fall off a bar stool with a whiskey in one hand and a cigar in the other, both seem an ideal way to go.

There will be a little chapel, one of those old Welsh ones that cling precariously to the hillside while the hearse wheezes it way up the mountain trail. My daughter and her family will be the only mourners and the minister will have to bribe a few old biddies to make up the numbers. (Tea and biscuits are okay for them). Of course I will bribe the minister with a case of scotch whiskey to read out my own eulogy. I see him as a Mr Dai Jones who also works part-time as the local butcher; maybe I have read too many works by Dylan Thomas.
I will arrive late of course; old eccentrics are allowed this even when they get shoved in a cheap pine coffin. After all, why waste money when I'm going to be cremated. (I'll pass on the bin-bag I do have some pride.)
Dai Jones will be standing by the podium wondering if he has time to nip into the vestry and have a quick swig of whiskey and scratch his butt.

I've already chosen one song for my funeral, its "Sunshine by the late John Denver. My other choice would be "We are the champions by Queen but I doubt that would be allowed.
No one must wear black; I will haunt them if they do. Red is fine, yellow better, oh sod it, anything except black.
The stage is set and the players are all present, After listening to "Sunshine the minister will say a short prayer and this is what he will read out: -

Now my days are numbered and its farewell to the past,
I took my time about it but now I'm hear at last
I have a bone to pick with St Peter at the gate
Why keep me hanging on well past my sell-by date.
My life has been a burden but I have no real regret
Except for trusting Jimmy Bach that was a dodgy bet.
I put my pension on a nag in one last wild fling
To leave some money for a wake now that would be something!

I don't want gloomy faces this is MY do after all
And if I had my own way it would end up as a ball.
But to keep to some tradition I will rest here for a while
Crammed into my coffin and on my face a smile.
I've weathered perfectly well past three score years and ten
I put it down to stubbornness and kicking out the men.
They had their uses now and then my family's proof of that
And once or twice on winter nights they're warmer than my cat.

Sometimes I've been quite wicked and indulged in every vice
The world would be a better place if everyone had a slice,
There's nowt that's wrong with having fun it makes the world go round
You only have a short time here and ages in the ground.
Which reminds me now to tell you I may have another date
The fire is stoked up nicely and I don't want to be late.
But while I have you here awhile I want a word or two
A bit about my time on earth, a chance to air my view.

When I was reaching fifty I thought I'd had enough
Of saying yes to everyone so started getting tough.
But habits are so hard to kick I slipped up all the time
And thought I'd be a doormat instead of in my prime.
I even saw my epitaph engraved for all to read
She was punctual, reliable and kind to all in need.
No one saw it coming the change that came to pass
Now you take me as I am or kneel and kiss my ass.

So when you take me from this place and turn my bones to ash
Remember what I told you and do as I have asked
Take me to my favourite place, stop awhile and see
Then cast me to the four winds and let my spirit free.
Weep not for me my dears nor waste a bunch of flowers
For I have passed the stage of counting lonely hours.
But come to visit now and then who knows what I've become
Fertiliser for the plants or motes of dust in sun.

Exit stage left to the sound of Queen.

© Lisa Fuller January 2006.