OUTLOOK: SETTLED

Its funny isn't it how things can change in a flash. One moment you're happily driving along the road and then suddenly you skid or an idiot driver collides with you and your life is turned upside down.

Many years ago when my wife was expecting our first child she lovingly prepared the nursery in readiness and then a burst pipe poured through the ceiling ruining all her efforts.

Recently I have experienced more trials and tribulations. Life was good. I'd taken a new interest in the garden and my efforts had paid off as it was attracting compliments. 

Grand-parenting was rewarding us richly and we had made a few home improvements which left us with a warm glow.

Then the weather started to deteriorate. Halloween arrived along with crashes and bangs as fireworks were let off. A relative died. A funeral had to be fitted into an already busy schedule. Another relative died. Another funeral to accommodate. 

Our health took a bad turn. The children's health, along with their babies also suffered. A treasured possession went missing. A couple of bulbs blew.

Then a minor disaster as strong winds took down our treasured pergola and devastated our lovely garden.

When will it ever end?  The answer is now. Listen here you fickle finger of fate - yes I'm pointing at you - is that the best you've got?

I shall repair the garden with renewed vigour. We will get healthy again. The weather will brighten up. I enjoyed the first funeral - bring on the next (as long as it's not mine).

NOT FUNNY

I have a friend or rather, an aquaintance, who is a lovely chap. His name is Richard. I see him at the bridge club quite often and because he looks like a slightly older version of me I jokingly call him 'Dad'.

He takes it in good spirit because he shares my sense of humour. Knowing this, he often sends me joke emails. They are usually very funny but to be honest, there are usually far too many of them filling my inbox. 

I had a cunning plan. I created a special inbox and instructed my computer to divert all emails from Richard into it. This way I could peruse them at leisure.

I did this recently and found seven joke emails plus one marked 'my illness' which was dated 10 days ago. Sadly this one informed me (and others) that Richard was diagnosed with cancer 3 weeks before.

Despite the sad news, Richard is upbeat about things and explains how he will be starting chemotherapy soon He also vows to fight it 'all the way'.

Last night at the bridge club, they announced that Richard had died. Today I deleted his special inbox. Then I went into my address book and pressed 'Delete contact'. 

If only there was a way to 'Undo'.  

HAPPY ENDING?

When my Dad died ...

Don't worry - you shouldn't need the box of tissues.

As I was saying - when my Dad died, I had to do the usual painful job of sorting out his stuff. There was accumulated rubbish to throw away, useful items to give to charity, the odd item of value to sell and a few mementos with associated memories.

It was a sad occasion of course but the saddest moment for me was when I was clearing the bedroom and found the book he had been reading at the side of the bed. He was half-way through it. How sad I thought, that he never got to finish the story.

Now like me, Dad liked nothing more than a good murder mystery novel. I began to wonder - which book will they find unfinished next to my bed after I check out? 

So here's my plea. Whether I find myself knocking on Heaven's Gates or Hades' Hatch, please will someone take pity on me and tell me Whodunnit?

DEATH DRIVE

She was somebody's daughter, born and raised in the country but later she became a city dweller. 

She never went to school but her parents did a great job of teaching her what she needed to know in order to branch out. She was never jealous of the kids in school in fact she usually looked down on them. 

She knew all the basics necessary for getting by and if there was anything she was unsure of she would just wing it.

In time she found a partner to spend the rest of her short life with. He was a bit of a high flier and she sometimes struggled to keep up with him.

This was to be her undoing as on that fateful day, her partner dashed across the road. She had always trusted his judgement but he was so much quicker than her. 

I was the driver. In truth I was going a bit too fast. All I saw was a blur as her partner rushed across in front of me. I cursed him but was glad that I had managed to avoid hitting him. The last thing I expected was for her to follow but suddenly there she was. 

There was a crunch as she hit the top of the windscreen. I can only hope that she died instantly as her body bounced off the roof of my car to land lifeless on the road. 

I felt a huge pang of guilt. The only comfort I could find was that she was 'only' a pigeon.

thanks to Simon Howden for the image

WHERE THERE'S A WILL ...

I have recently celebrated my 65th birthday. Following this, I have discovered that for some strange reason, insurance companies are less keen than they were to pay out large sums of money to my family in the event that I should die at some stage during the next twenty years or so.

This reminder of my mortality has prompted me to check up on my will and give it a tweak or two. I do hope that your own is safely in place.

This in turn had me looking to see what others had put in their wills and I have picked a few choice ones for your general amusement.

1. Our very own 'Will', William Shakespeare, famously left his wife, Anne Hathaway, his 'second best bed'. This prompts the obvious question 'who got the best bed?' to which I have not found the answer.

2. It seems that a namesake of mine, Anthony Scott, wrote in his will 'To my first wife Sue, whom I always promised to mention in my will. Hello Sue!'

3. Then there was the person whose will had not been very carefully checked since it included a sum of money for 'The Royal Society for the Prevention of Birds'. Vultures presumably.

4. Another person's will wished for 'peace and affluence to all my friends and a piece of effluence to all my enemies'.

5. Spare a thought though for the lady who left her beloved cat her entire house. The lady's funeral took place on a glorious sunny day and her cat who was happily sunning itself on the drive was run over by the hearse.

They make my own will seem positively dull by comparison.

INFAMOUS LAST WORDS

It would be nice to think that just before meeting our maker, we could summon our last remnants of invention and utter a witty or whimsical remark by which we might be remembered. Sadly, the muse deserted Pancho Villa, the Mexican revolutionary, for his dying remark was "Don't let it end like this. Tell them I said something." I think he was hoping for a little more than a verbatim reporting of these words.

In reality then, it might be best to follow in the Blue Peter tradition of 'Here's a deathbed speech which I prepared earlier'. However, a

word of warning is in order. Do not copy someone else's witty demise as Groucho Marx did when on expiring in 1977 he said "Die, my dear? Why that's the last thing I'll do!" which a little research has shown to be the actual deathbed words of Henry Palmerston over a hundred years before in 1856. Perhaps Groucho felt that the copyright must have expired by then.

Of course, the circumstances of your impending death may well have a bearing on your choice of phrase. Imagine if you will that you are standing in front of a firing squad and are given the floor for your final speech. A certain Joe Hill of Utah found himself thus situated back in 1915 and shouted "Fire!" which promptly brought down the final curtain. James Rodgers, also facing a firing squad was asked if he had any last requests. "Why yes, a bulletproof vest!" he exclaimed - a request which was denied him.

Staying with the execution theme, a convicted murderer named James French when about to take a seat in the electric chair shouted out to the assembled news reporters "Hey, fellas! How about this for a headline for tomorrow’s paper? ‘French Fries’!"

Of course there have been some sad souls who when about to die, seized the opportunity to make their last big mistake. For instance, you would be well advised not to copy Gaius Caligula who, critical of his own guards to the last, pointed out their shoddy workmanship when having attempted to assassinate him, the Emperor shouted "I am still alive!" The error was soon corrected.

Terry Kath, who co-founded the rock band Chicago, managed the immortal phrase "Don't worry, it's not loaded" as he 'pretended' to shoot himself in the head. General John Sedgwick, a Union commander during the Civil War made a similar error of judgement when sticking his head above the parapet as he said "They couldn't hit an elephant at this dist. . . ."

I certainly plan to have something memorable to say when I proceed to checkout. No sense in rushing things though. I intend to write it the day before I die.

FALLEN OFF THE PERCH

Those friends of mine who don't 'do' Twitter say things like 'Well they're not real friends are they?' Maybe not in the sense of having met them but when I was a child and had 'pen' friends I hadn't met them either. It didn't stop them being real though.

They say you can choose your friends but not your family. The suggestion is that your friends will be good ones because they were hand-picked. So are my Twitter friends.

They are not 'virtual'. I usually know their names and where they live. Through their tweets I get to know their character and a great deal about their daily lives. Or deaths.

One of my Twitter friends died suddenly and unexpectedly on Christmas Day. We mostly tweeted about our mutual love of music. Her last tweets still sit there on her page as a reminder of the fun person she was. she said "Grooving". "Hips moving, saxaphone. I am gone so gone........"

....and now she is and I am sad.......so sad......."

WELCOME TO THE JUNGLE

I live in a quiet little cul-de-sac on a quiet little estate, in a quiet little .......... OK, you get the picture. Usually, the closest we get to the call of the wild is an occasional glimpse of a fox skulking about late at night. This morning however, I discovered that it's a jungle out there.

I have previously mentioned my bird-feeding habits ('Surrogate dogs') and was heading out to scatter my seed when I realised that all was not well in my garden. The first thing my sleepy brain took in was the pile of white feathers on the path. Surprisingly, I was awake enough to realise that this signified the demise of a pigeon. Just beyond the feathers was our lovely garden statue of a sparrow-hawk and nearby was ....... hang on! We don't have a statue of a sparrow-hawk.

It was a magnificent sight. Perched motionless on top of its prey which it grasped firmly in its talons as the corpse twitched occasionally. I watched in fascination as it then proceeded to deftly pluck the pigeon's feathers off and started to eat its fresh, warm breakfast.

I called my wife to see the sight and as you would expect, she went all girly with cries of "Oh the poor little pigeon". She then turned on her heel leaving me with 'Obviously it will be you clearing up that feathery mess out there'. As for me, I was resisting the boyish urge to shout out 'You want fries with that?'

Later, when the bird had flown, I went out to do the man's job of dealing with death. While I was sweeping up the feathers I came upon a rather large quantity of blood underneath. No problem. We men can handle it. For some reason it occurred to me that in all my years, I have never seen a female butcher. It seems that it takes the male of the species to handle butchery.

Then as I finished up, I suddenly discovered a bloodied little pigeon's head (*whimper).

HAVING THE LAST LAUGH

England have crashed out of the world cup, Murray is out of Wimbledon despite giving it his best shot and it's raining. Could there be a better time to write about funerals?

At my age I've attended many of them. I've seen off all my Grandparents - although one Grandad only succumbed at the ripe old age of 96. Various Uncles and Aunts have dropped off their perches. Thankfully a few remain though some look a little grey around the temples. Notably, my Uncle Roy stipulated that when we saw him off, nobody was to wear black - in fact he requested that everyone wore hunting pink and so we did. I spoke at both my parents' funerals - not a dry eye in the house. I know how to milk a situation!

The worst by far of course, are the funerals of children. It's just not meant to be like that. The small coffin is hard to bear (excuse the pun). It is also usually the case that when the deceased is young, there is standing room only in the chapel. Sadly, as a teacher of special needs children many of whom were life-limited, I attended many such events.

Now that I am in my sixties, I face a new challenge - attending the funerals of my own peer group. As the actor Ray Winstone said in a recent interview in the Times, "Losing elders is tough but it's losing mates and contemporaries that makes you realise you're a man and not a kid anymore". The trouble is, they are dropping off the same perch as the one that my claws are tightly gripping.

It does make you think though. I mean, have you ever considered what you would like written on your tombstone? There are many examples of 'Tombstone Humour'. One I rather like is

"Here lies the body of Jonathan Blake, stepped on the gas instead of the brake".

Then of course there is Spike Milligan's well-known gaelic epitaph "I told you I was ill" - though it had been used before his demise, he seems to get the credit for it. Maybe I'll go for "I don't suppose we could we make it best of three?"

My Grandad is my inspiration. My aim is to pass his 96 years and receive the royal telegram when I make it to 100. If that fails, I shall follow in the claw steps of the Monty Python 'Dead Parrot' sketch. My feet will be firmly nailed to the perch with no chance of my dropping off.

TELL IT LIKE IT IS

I'd like to share a story with you which I heard the other day. It's a sad story from which there is much to learn.

It concerns a little boy who we'll call Bobby. He was about 5 years old and was an only child. He was very well cared for and his parents loved him dearly. In fact they loved him so much that when his Daddy became gravely ill, they decided to shield Bobby from the dreadful facts of his father's condition.

He was just told that his father was poorly and had had to take to his bed (he and his wife had separate rooms because his coughing kept her awake). The months passed and his Daddy became more and more ill. When the doctor called to see his father, Bobby was ushered out of the room 'for his own good'. Bobby tried to ask about his poorly father but was just told not to worry - everything will be alright.

Then one night, around 2 a.m. , Bobby was awakened by the sound of his Daddy calling for help. He nervously went into the bedroom to find his weak and feeble father asking for a glass of water. Glad to be able to help in some way, Bobby went downstairs and brought him a refreshing tumbler of water which his Daddy gratefully quaffed. Bobby went back to bed, happy that he had been able to help his poor father even in such a simple way.

Tragically, the next morning, Bobby's mother discovered that her husband had died in the early hours. The doctor was called for and although his Mum did tell Bobby that his Daddy had died, he was asked to stay in his room to save him from the sad facts.

Bobby couldn't help himself. He listened at the bedroom door. All he managed to hear was the Doctor saying 'Of course, it was the drink that killed him'.

Bobby told no-one about his guilty knowledge that he had killed his father by getting him that glass of water. It was a very long time before he finally learned that his father had died of cirrhosis of the liver caused by chronic alcoholism.

The moral of the story is that we best protect our children by giving them knowledge.

EARLY CHECKOUT

My dear departed mother had a morbid terror of being cremated alive. It was such a concern to her, that she made me promise to stick a pin in her on her deathbed to check that she didn't flinch. I tried to persuade her that since she would be laid out for several days, there was every likelihood that a passing undertaker would notice her tapping out S.O.S. in morse with her finger but she would have none of it. So yes, I pricked her finger.

She is in good company. George Washington no less, was so terrified of the idea of being buried alive that he made his servants promise to wait for 2 days after his death before burying him.

Fear of being buried alive, the medical term for which is 'Taphephobia', was so common in the 18th and 19th centuries that the 'safety coffin' was invented. This was a coffin with a cord inside attached to a bell above ground so that anyone who might awaken to find themselves in a small, dark, confined space could feel around for the rope and set the bell ringing. It seems to have escaped people's attention, that a bell ringing from a churchyard is a fairly commonplace event.

Of course, this fear of premature burial is completely irrational especially nowadays with modern medicine being so advanced. By the way, while I think of it, when it comes to my turn, I'd be obliged if I could be buried with my mobile phone - only because I am so fond of it. Oh, and if you could just make sure that it is charged up I'd be most obliged.

DOWN TO EARTH WITH A BUMP

My previous post, 'Crossing Over', told of the moving moment when I was with my Dad at his death. What followed was surreal almost to the point of being comic!

There I was with a newly dead body - not something I'd experienced before - with the realisation that I was expected to do something about it. Rather stupidly, I decided to phone the doctor - as if he would make any difference! In fact of course, this was the right thing to do since the doctor would be able to pronounce Dad to be dead and issue the death certificate. They also advised me to contact the undertakers.

Dad and I now sat in silence, a very strange event, for an hour or so. Though full of sadness, I was also fascinated to gaze at the dead body. It wasn't my Dad. It couldn't be more obvious to me that he had gone. What I was looking at was just the shell he used to inhabit.

Eventually, the doctor arrived at around midnight I think. He asked a few questions and wrote out the paperwork. I was left with 'Dad' again until the undertakers arrived. There were two of them, one average size and the other very short. Dad was slumped in a sitting position on the settee so they laid out the opened body bag on the floor in front of him. Now they had to pull and slide him forward feet first onto the floor.

Now Dad was about 17-18 stone (240-250 pounds) and these guys couldn't shift him. The short one looked at me with a guilty expression and asked if I would mind helping. I took an arm, the short guy took his feet and his colleague took the other arm. Together we lifted Dad and slid him forward onto the body bag and I vividly remember the moment that his head hit the floor with a big bump! They zipped him up and then the three of us took the bag handles and carried him out to the van.

So one moment, I had witnessed my Dad die in the most moving way and the next I was carrying him out in a body bag. I know he would have seen the funny side of the situation!

CROSSING OVER

I was with my Dad when he died - just the two of us, at his place. He'd had prostate cancer and had been getting treatment. After a spell in hospital, he'd been allowed home and seemed much improved. So it sort of stole up on us.

That night I'd called in about 7 in the evening and found him dozing on the settee with the T.V. on as usual. On checking, I found he'd not taken his tablets so I mildly ticked him off and got them for him. Then I found he'd not eaten. I cooked him a meal and had to wake him again to eat it. I realised that it was his sleepiness that had messed up his routine and said so. 'Yes! If I could just shake off this tiredness' he said with an air of determination. These were to be his last words.

I left him to eat his supper and popped back home. I was back an hour or so later and found him dozing again with his meal hardly touched. I took the plate away and sat and watched him. He was in a deep sleep and snoring a little. Only now did I realise that this was no ordinary sleepiness. Somehow I knew this was the end. As I watched, the love in me for this dear man became overwhelming. I just sat transfixed watching him. It was moving like music, awesome like Nature can be. I just felt full of a sort of reverential wonder.

Then as I watched, he gave out three big, loud sighs. It was the 'death rattle'. Then stillness and silence. Now came the tears. I went over and knelt by his side holding his arm, talking to him and kissing his hand as I wept deeply.

After a few minutes I sat back and looked at him. I realised that he could have had no better ending. He was in his own home, sat in his normal place, television on and a half-completed crossword at his side. I felt hugely sad but hugely grateful. Grateful for the manner of his death but also for the privilege of being there with him.