And yes, I know it's terribly blurred, but here is a close up of the stamp. So pretty. If you look close enough, you can see that the symbol atop the '5' key is that of a pound, not a dollar.
So how's this for a massive digression? When I was on the waiting list for my transplant, I planned my funeral. Morbid? No. Practical? Yes. I still have my funeral plan in a big yellow envelope and printed on the front is 'To only be opened in the event of my death'. Very Pauline Hanson, except that I did this pre-white power resurgence. I'm so evolved. Then again, an ant is more evolved than that ranga.
I had chosen the priest who would conduct the service, and despite my strong agnosticism, I had it written that Father David Binns would be that priest. Now he has passed, I will have to amend a few things. Eleven years on, most of what I wanted hasn't changed. There were to be no prayers, yet I wanted my funeral to be held in St. John's Cathedral for it's sheer majesty, and still do. Music, order of service and things like poems - and the people who I want to read those poems - haven't really changed. I also wrote down what I would like to have happen at my wake. This also involved music, my favourite foods and a road train of piss.
I only ever showed my funeral plans to one person, and that person who was, and still is my closest friend, just happens to be David's daughter, Laura. I played her the final song and when she cried, I knew I had grabbed and pulled a nerve. Laura does not cry readily. Though she is one of the kindest an warmest of friends, Laura reserves her tears. I remember the night so clearly. We were in my room at Hargreaves (the house on the river) with the bay windows gaping open to catch the breeze sweeping off the water, and we were in muted light. It was January. I did not expect Laura's reaction. We hugged for a long time, as tears coursed down her face, making tracks for them to flow faster.
I didn't know what to expect. I had written the plan for my funeral the way you would write a shopping list. It seemed to be the natural thing to do at the time because I was going to die, and passing through the eye of the needle was seemingly painless because I had been able to detach myself and just get the hell on with what needed to be done. Needless to say, the last song is still the last song, and this is what I was going to have engraved on my tombstone plaque thingy:
A thing of beauty is a joy for ever:
Its loveliness increases; it will never
Pass into nothingness; but still will keep
A bower quiet for us, and a sleep
Full of sweet dreams, and health, and quiet breathing.
'Endymion' John Keats
My inclusion of The Keats stanza has not changed either. So yeah, I like my old stuff better than my new stuff.
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