I Couldn't Even Think Of A Title

I sat down yesterday to write this blog post without an idea in my head. I looked at the blank screen for a while, but it didn't help (funny, that). Then I had a trawl back through some old posts to see if anything would inspire me. (Is it really, really sad to read your own writing in hope of inspiration?)

While I was doing that, I noticed that the last time I had a blogbreak was in summer 2006. And then I did have an idea.

Yes, dear readers, I'm going to take a break. I'm really low on ideas for this blog, and I need to concentrate on other kinds of writing for a while. Charles is producing good, entertaining posts about funerals. Any of the Novel Racers will offer you posts about writing. And for quality rants, from the idiotic through the eccentric to the laudable, I commend you to the online Guardian's Comment Is Free section.

I do intend to continue reading and (mostly) commenting on the blogs in my sidebar. I don't know when I'll start writing blog posts again. Maybe next week, next month or next year. Maybe never. Maybe tomorrow. Who knows? Perhaps I'll reinvent myself and appear in a different corner of the web under a whole new identity. If you want me for anything in the meantime, feel free to email. And look on the bright side - that's one less blog you need to check on for a while!

Post Of The Week

New Year Resolutions. What are they good for? Evidently not taking up exercise, stopping smoking or losing weight. I decided, some years ago, that I would only make New Year Resolutions that would enhance my life, not the kind that involve me beating myself with a big stick that may be metaphorical but nevertheless hurts. Since then I've made two. The first was to stop buying black clothes (my predilection for black was nothing to do with funerals and everything to do with having no fashion sense) and the second was to take proper holidays. Both improved my life no end.

I'm making another one this year: to be more consistently supportive of Post Of The Week. In case you haven't come across POTW, it's a small informal competition, run by bloggers for bloggers, with the aim of bringing good new writing to a wider audience. The rules are simple: anyone can nominate a post for inclusion; the editorial team produce a shortlist each weekend from that week's nominations; a handful of bloggers read the shortlisted posts and rank their top five in order; those scores are then used by the editorial team to identify that week's winner.

Some people are put off by the competitive aspect of POTW. However, for me, the competitive part isn't the point. You could say that's easy for me to say as I'm a Hall Of Famer, i.e. I've been shortlisted at least five times and won at least once. But I've always enjoyed contributing to POTW because it broadens my blog horizons in a very easy way. Some terrific blogs have come to light through this, and don't we all write to be read? Isn't that the point?

For me, anything that separates the cyberdiamonds from the cyberdross is worth promoting. If you haven't met POTW before, and would like to get some idea of the standard of posts it includes, let me commend to you the winners and the shortlists. I return to this page regularly when I'm in search of a good read. If you already do the same, then you might like to consider getting a little more involved. This could simply mean nominating a post from time to time, or if you want to do more than that, you could help with the judging, either as a one-off 'guest judge' or as a regular judge or team member. But there's no obligation, and if you do nothing else, I would recommend that you bookmark the page and keep an eye on it for guaranteed high quality blogging.

So are you making any New Year Resolutions this year? If so, feel free to share in the comments box. That's another reason I like POTW, and blogging, and doing funerals - I'm insatiably nosy!

Memorial Scammers?

I read a very interesting article in yesterday's Observer by Victoria Coren, daughter of the well-known writer, humorist and broadcaster Alan Coren who died in October 2007. The article evoked a combination of amusement and horror.

In brief: Victoria was planning a memorial service for her father when she was alerted to the existence of one Terence Jolley. This man seems to make a habit of attending memorial services for famous people, particularly those with arts connections.

I've never been to a memorial service for anyone famous, but it seems that entrance is by ticket. Numbered tickets are distributed by the family, partly to ensure that relatives and friends are seated near the front, with fans and well-wishers further back. It may be that for some memorial services, entrance is restricted to those who knew the deceased in person, but as far as Victoria was concerned, "Those who had written honestly to say that they didn't know my father personally, but were life-long admirers, were very welcome."

An email from 'Terence and Caroline Jolley' claimed that they had worked with Alan Coren at the BBC. Googling Terence Jolley reveals that he is an ex-magistrate; has been involved with a transport fraud; may at some time have run a printing company in Barnsley; does voluntary work; has a particular interest in mental health issues; has himself suffered a nervous breakdown and been diagnosed as suffering from a personality disorder; and has never been married (although of course Caroline could be his sister, aunt, granny or whatever).

Victoria did some detective work and discovered that the postal address given by Terence and Caroline Jolley was a guesthouse in Ilford. She had also been asked to send tickets to this address by a Keith Davidson. Terence Jolley's home address is in Barnsley, and she had been asked to send tickets to that address by a Lady Noreen Wray and a Mr Gary Holmes. There were emails from other people whose names she didn't recognise and whose postal addresses, when she checked, didn't appear in any official records. She contacted one man she'd never heard of, Marc Cain, and discovered that his name had been 'borrowed' for a ticket application - and so had his dog Tessa's.

So Victoria, being both clever and cross, decided to lay a trap for the Jolley gang. She invented a fictional arts patron, killed him off, and advertised a non-existent memorial service all over the Internet, giving the email address of the fictional arts patron's fictional grief-stricken boyfriend. Within hours she had had a request for tickets from 'The Hon Terence Jolley and Terence Jolley (Snr)', and from Lady Noreen Wray, Gary Holmes and several others who had previously applied to attend Alan Coren's memorial service. They all claimed to have known, or known of, the fictional arts patron, and - most sickeningly - to have admired his work.

Gotcha! But due to a combination of complicated circumstances, Victoria decided not to prevent the whole gang from attending her father's memorial service. She ensured that Terence Jolley himself was unable to attend, and let the others come to the service and tuck into the food at the reception while she "avoided them, got drunk and toasted my father".

Terence Jolley seems to style himself 'The Hon' fairly regularly. This would mean he was, or was related to, a peer of the realm, or that he was a Privy Councillor. There is no evidence on the Internet to support this, and in fact a Wikipedia entry from 2008 for 'The Honourable Terence Jolley' was swiftly deleted for 'not indicating a real person'. But he's been doing this for a while: for example, The Times reported him attending a memorial service as The Hon Terence Jolley in 2005. They have him down at another one in early 2008, this time as Mr Terence Jolley, whose name is next to Ms Noreen Wray - whose title also seems to be astonishingly flexible. She appears in The Times at a royalty-studded memorial service in 2007, this time as Mrs Noreen Wray and without Mr/The Hon Jolley. UK Google has four entries for Noreen Wray, three connected with memorial services and one from October 2007 when she petitioned the Government to give Terence Jolley an OBE or MBE. The petition received six signatures, including those of 'Darren and Becky Fisher' - which is interesting as Victoria had an application for tickets to her father's memorial service from 'Darren and Heidi Fisher'. I wonder who these people are.

The Observer, quite rightly, gave Terence Jolley a chance to answer Victoria's allegations. Here is what he said:

I applied at the time [to attend Alan Coren's memorial service] when the announcement went in the Telegraph or one of the papers. Myself and several of my colleagues applied - it was easier to apply on their behalf than do it individually.

I'd met him in Leeds on a couple of occasions. There was nothing untoward about me applying. It was not done in a way to deride somebody but the complete opposite. I've made similar applications in the past but sometimes I haven't got the time to go to them. They are people I have met or I have connection with from doing research; maybe I will have met them on only one or two occasions. I applied on behalf of Marc Cain and assumed he might have a lady friend he wanted to bring along so it was the easiest thing to do [apply on behalf of Cain's dog]. I couldn't think whether he had a particular lady friend; you never know.

I applied [to attend a memorial for the fictional arts patron] and it's possible I applied on behalf of some friends, too. I couldn't find him in Who's Who but I'd read he had been recently knighted. It was interesting to know what people did and what they have achieved.

But this still leaves me with several questions. Why the shifting titles? And why the outright lies? It may be that some of the people who apply for tickets to memorial services are not fans of the person who has died, but just want a nice day out, a chance to don a posh outfit and scoff some free grub. As Jolley says, it can be interesting to know about people's lives, especially those who are in some way exceptional. And I know, from hanging around crematorium entrances, that people attend all sorts of funerals for all sorts of reasons, and free food is often high on the list. It may seem like a small offence to blag a few butties from some famous people. But famous people love their families just as much, and feel the pain of bereavement every bit as keenly, as any other people. And in my book, blagging anything off the recently bereaved leaves a very nasty smell.

The trouble with uncovering this gang is that they might get better at what they do, change their names and identifying details, and carry on. So it's just as well there's a photo of Mr Jolley on the Internet, then, isn't it?

Three Top Tips For Speaking At Funerals

So, due to popular demand, here they are.

1. Sit at the aisle end of a row. This means you can get up to the front without having to squeeze past several people hissing 'excuse me... sorry... excuse me... oops, sorry...' and feeling horribly embarrassed before you even start speaking.

2. Don't look at anyone you know. This is really, really important. Don't stare down at your notes, either, if you can avoid it. Find a group of people you don't know and look at them, or look at the back wall, or a pillar, or the centre of the aisle, or the organ - whatever you can see that is neutral. The reason for this is that if you catch sight of someone you know, and they're having a bad moment, it can be your undoing.

3. Remember that the congregation are mourners just like you, not a massive panel of judges. They are not going to suddenly produce cardboard lollipops with scores on. It doesn't matter if you get a bit choked mid-speech and need a moment to compose yourself. Take a couple of deep breaths; wipe your eyes or blow your nose if you need to. Nobody will be surprised that you're feeling emotional. Everyone will be impressed with your courage and determination, and they will all be willing you on.

So those are my top tips, but there are a few other things that can also help. First, write down what you want to say, appoint someone as back-up to take over if you can't manage it on the day, and give them a copy of your speech. This is useful insurance in case you fall ill, or your car breaks down on the way to the funeral, or there is some other reason why you are unable to speak as planned. Nobody knows quite how they will feel at a funeral, and occasionally people simply can't speak. I usually act as back-up for family members who want to speak at my funerals, and they nearly always don't need me to do anything more than be ready to step in. It seems that just knowing someone is willing and able to take over makes the process easier to manage.

Second, have some tissues in your pocket or up your sleeve. It's grim if you do need to blow your nose and don't have any to hand.

Third, be prepared for lots of attention and compliments after the service. Many people will want to tell you they think you're really brave, did very well, should be proud of yourself, etc etc etc. I find this difficult because I'm rather British and tend to want to brush away compliments and be left alone, but I realise that's not helpful or kind to the compliment-givers, so I try for gracious acceptance and a quick change of subject.

Fourth and last, plan a way to relax after the service or - if there is one - the reception. Speaking at a funeral is a big deal and may take more out of you than you expect. Think of something that will work for you: a quiet evening at home with your family; a long hot bath; a glass of good wine; a massage; it doesn't matter what it is, as long as it will help you unwind. And make sure you take full advantage of the opportunity, because you will have earned it.

Peter #2

I spoke to Lynne again the night before her mother's funeral. Sure enough, Peter was still determined to speak. But Lynne sounded much happier about it.

'He's practised it over and over and over,' she told me. 'He's run through it with me about two hundred times, and he's word-perfect, but he keeps asking to practise it again. I don't mind though. I think this is how he's dealing with his nerves.'

'What's he going to say?' I asked. 'Am I likely to duplicate anything?'

'I don't think so,' Lynne said. 'He's really talking about his experience of Dad, and you're going to do the kind of biography thing, aren't you? So I think the two will go together well. And I've timed him; it's around four minutes.'

'Okay. I can work with that.'

I was glad Lynne seemed more confident, but I was still anxious. Call me a control freak, but I don't like anything unpredictable in my funerals; I like them planned, timed, rehearsed, deliberate. So I dealt with my own nerves by arriving even earlier than usual at the crematorium, and then sat in the car for forty minutes, thinking of all the jobs I could have been doing at home and wondering why I'm such an eejit.

Time rolled slowly along and eventually I was standing outside the chapel doors watching the hearse draw up. The funeral director was my dear friend Paul who got out of the hearse, turned his back to the mourners and gave me a surreptitious wink and smile as he shook my hand.

'Let's get the family out,' he said. 'My chaps will see to the coffin.'

We headed for the limousine behind the hearse. Lynne stepped out first and greeted us both with hugs. Peter followed her out and stood still, his hands at his sides, his face expressionless.

'Hello, Peter,' I said. 'How are you doing?'

'I'm OK,' he rumbled. 'I have a job to do. And then I will be upset.'

'When you've finished your job.'

'Yes.'

He seemed monumentally calm. I wanted to tell him I thought his dad would be really proud of him, but I didn't know how secure his control was, and I didn't want to jeopardise his plans. So I decided to stick to the nuts and bolts.

'In a minute you will walk in with Lynne behind the coffin.' I pointed to where the bearers were placing the coffin carefully on the bier. 'I will go in front to lead the way, and Paul will show you where to go. When everyone has sat down, I will say a few things to welcome people and let them get settled. Then I'll call your name, and then you can come to the front and stand by me and say your piece. OK?'

'Lynne, will you help me remember?'

Lynne was trembling, on the verge of tears, but she fought them back and managed a crumpled smile for him. 'Yes, Peter, I'll help you.' She tucked her hand through his arm and leant her head on his shoulder.

'OK,' Paul said, 'let's go.'

The start of the ceremony went smoothly and I was glad to be underway. When I called Peter, he lumbered up to the front, his face expressionless as usual, and stood at the lectern.

'My dad taught me that everybody is different. Lynne is my sister so we are alike in some ways and also different. Lynne can't say anything today because she is too upset. I can say about my dad for both of us. I will be upset after.'

His words came slow and ponderous, like drumbeats.

'My dad loved me and Lynne and my mum best of all. He was good at loving us because he was happy when we were there. Sometimes when we were little and we were naughty he would get cross but that was OK. It's what a dad has to do and it helped us learn not to be naughty.

My dad always helped me all his life, and I always helped him too. Especially when he was old I could help him because I am strong. He liked me to help him and he would always say "thank you, Peter, you are such a help to me."

My dad enjoyed his life and that is a good thing. He was a happy man. Lynne and me would not have liked anybody else to be our dad.'

Peter walked calmly back down to the front pew and took his seat by Lynne. Then he began to cry. He cried like a child, open-mouthed and noisy. He cried through the rest of the service: waves of great gasping sobs, hiccups, elephantine nose-blowing, the works. It was contagious, too; I don't think there was a dry eye in the place apart from mine. I carried on with the service, although I don't think people could hear much of what I was saying, or of the music we played at the committal. But it didn't matter. Peter's weeping felt like an extension of his tribute, a perfect expression of his feelings of sadness at the loss of his beloved dad.

Peter

Lynne was a small, neat, softly-spoken woman in her early 50s. She sat on the sofa next to her brother Peter, a lumpy man with thick glasses. Lynne fidgeted like an unsettled cat while Peter was very still, his hands between his knees, as if somebody had switched him off.

Peter had always lived at home. Their mother had died several years earlier, and since her death, Peter and his father had cared for each other. Lynne lived nearby with her teenage son Daniel. She had explained to me on the phone that Peter would be moving to a residential centre, that he'd been prepared for this over the last few years, and that he was happy about the move. It sounded sensible, but I felt sorry for him, losing his familiar home as well as his beloved father.

Lynne was doing all the talking. I tried to address questions to them both, to encourage Peter to speak if he wanted to. I wasn't sure how much he was taking in. I didn't know whether being still and quiet was Peter's usual social style or a grief response.

I'd got most of the information I needed, and it seemed like a good time to ask one of my standard questions. 'Would either of you like to speak at the funeral? Or anyone else, Daniel maybe, or one of your father's friends?'

Lynne shook her head. 'I'd like to, but I couldn't. And I know Daniel would say the same.'

A seismic rumble came from Peter as he cleared his throat. 'I want to speak for Dad.'

'Are you sure?' Lynne turned to him, her face drawn in concern. 'Don't you think you'll get upset?'

'I am upset. Dad's died.' He spoke slowly, as if each word was heavy to lift from his body. 'I want to speak. I knew Dad best. This lady didn't know Dad.'

'Peter, you're right,' I said. 'It is best, at funerals, if someone who knew the person who has died can say something. Will you be able to write down what you want to say, so I can put it in the script?'

He shook his head. 'I can't do writing very well. I will think about what to say, and practise with Lynne.'

Lynne was worried. 'Peter, it's a hard thing to do,' she said.

'It will be like a job. I will do this for Dad. Like at work.'

'Peter works in the Scope shop three mornings a week,' Lynne told me.

'With Madge and Carol,' Peter said. 'Madge says I mustn't get angry with a customer, even if the customer is rude to me. Madge says I can wait to be angry until the customers have all left the shop. Then I can shout, or swear if I want to.'

'So do you think you can do it like that at the funeral?' I asked. 'Can you wait to be upset until after you have spoken to everyone?'

'Yes. I can wait. And I can speak.'

Lynne didn't look entirely convinced, and I was nervous too. Time is limited at the crematorium, so it's always nerve-racking when family members want to speak, as I'm never sure they will stick to the length of time available. I always ask people to write down what they want to say, for several reasons but partly so I can time it, but this clearly wasn't going to work with Peter. Also I didn't know whether to give him my Three Top Tips for speaking at funerals. I wasn't sure he'd need them, and I didn't want to overload him with information. In the end, I settled for suggesting that he sit on the end of a row to make it easy to come up to the front. I told him I would arrange for his speech to be near the beginning of the funeral, and left it at that.

Lynne telephoned me that evening.

'Zinnia, I've had another chat with Peter about this idea of his that he wants to speak at the funeral. To be honest, I was hoping to talk him out of it, but he really seems to want to speak. And when he gets an idea, it can be kind of hard to dislodge.'

'I think if he wants to speak he should speak,' I said. 'I'm a bit worried about the timing, though. He said he was going to work out what to say and practise with you. Can you time him, and let me know how long it's likely to be?'

'Of course. And then you can tell me if it's too long.'

'Five minutes should be fine, but if he goes much longer than that, we'll need to think about cutting down some of the music or leaving out one of the poems.'

'So we've got some flexibility if we need it.'

'Definitely. We don't need to make final decisions until the night before.'

I heard her whoosh an out-breath of relief. 'Okay,' she said. 'And he might still change his mind.'

But I didn't think he would.

To be continued...

These Things Happen

I was a poorly sick Zinnia last week. Nothing life-threatening, but enough to make a flowerhead droop. You know when you're shivering and sweating, aching all over, can't face food, head thumping like a drum? When all you can do is whinge about how terrible you feel? Yes, dear readers: I had man flu.

So I wasn't working. But it was still an odd week. I've mentioned before how funerals seem to come in bunches of the same type: earlier this year it was all bikers, one year there was a run on suicides, and quite often of course it's several elderly people in a row who have died of more-or-less natural causes.

My first call came from Gill at Pemberton's.

'Hi Zin, how are you?'

'Bit poorly, I'm afraid, Gill. I'm not working this week.'

'Oh, I am sorry. Nothing serious, I hope?'

'No, just this flu-type bug that's going around. What am I missing?'

'We've got a baby in.'

That is one sentence I hate to hear. Funeral directors don't like it either. Baby or child funerals are the worst we ever have to do. In some ways this is an indication of how lucky we are as a society, because infant mortality is so rare that it's a huge shock and trauma when it happens. I notice the difference with my older clients. When there is a surviving spouse, I will ask of their elderly husband or wife: 'was he/she an only child, or were there brothers and sisters?'. The reply will often come, very matter-of-factly: 'oh no, he was one of nine, and six lived.' I am sure people grieved hard for their children then, as they do now, but it must have felt different (not better - just different) when it was part of the natural order of things; when there was no clear expectation that a baby should live, grow up, become an adult, as of right. Which is what we have now here in the UK.

So Gill's statement would have given me chills if I didn't have them already. She told me it was a cot death of a three-month-old baby from a family with three other children who live on one of the worst estates around here.

'There's no money,' she said.

'I wouldn't have charged anyway. I don't, for babies.'

'We don't either. At least, only to cover our costs.'

Gill and I discussed other local celebrants and decided we thought Janet would be best, so Gill went off to give her a call. I put my head back on the pillow and thought about the family. I've visited several houses on that estate over the years, so I could almost picture them. I wished I could help them, but it was no use wishing.

A couple of hours later, Paul rang from Newell's. I was dozing, so my voice croaked as I answered the phone.

'Hi, Zin, you don't sound too good,' he said. 'Got the lurgy?'

'I have. I'm sorry. Did you want me for something?'

'You won't be sorry when I tell you.'

'Go on.'

'Do you remember Briony Payton?'

The name rang a bell, but I couldn't place her at first, and then it clicked.

'It was her daughter I met with, wasn't it? Donna.'

I remembered her because all through our meeting she was breastfeeding her four-month-old son. She was trying not to upset him by crying, although at several points tears slid silently down her face, and she wiped them away before they could fall on him. Most of the time he fed quietly, but at one point he lost his hold on her nipple and snuffled and snorted so that both she and I collapsed into giggles. That made him flail his arms crossly, which made us laugh even more. Tears and laughter; the usual thing. I'd liked her very much.

'Paul, is she OK? Her son - '

'She's well, and her son is fine. But she's just lost twins. They only lived for a few hours after birth.'

My stomach felt cold as stone. 'That's terrible.'

'Nothing good about it, is there? Donna said the nurses at the hospital were wonderful. But they had no idea there were problems. Multiple disabilities, apparently.'

'Poor, poor Donna. I wish I could help her.'

'She asked for you, but it doesn't sound like you're much use to anyone right now. Don't worry, I'll ring round the others.'

'Maybe not Janet, though, Paul.'

'Oh, really? I was thinking of her.'

'She's got a baby one already today, from Gill at Pemberton's.'

'Oh. OK. I see what you mean. Two in one week, that might be a bit heavy. Perhaps I'll try Dave then.'

'I'm really sorry, Paul.'

'Don't be. You can't help it. And anyway, it's not exactly an experience to cherish.'

'Give my love to Donna, won't you? And do explain for me.'

'I thought I'd tell her you couldn't be bothered because you've got a hot date.' He chuckled at my gasp of horror. 'You are feeling low if I've got you with that one. Of course I'll explain. And she'll understand. These things happen. Look after yourself, Zin.'

'You too.'

I tucked myself back under the duvet, shivering from more than just my illness. I could definitely picture Donna. Again, I so wished I could help her. I wanted to be out there, doing what I'm good at, making life just a tiny bit easier for families going through a particularly difficult kind of bereavement, accompanying them for a few steps of that long, long journey. I had wanted to say 'yes' to Gill, and to Paul, as I usually do, not make their lives more complicated when they've already got difficult baby deaths to deal with. I felt bad for adding pressure to the lives of my celebrant colleagues who would need to take those funerals on. Then again, they might do a better job than me, as they're both parents themselves. Then again again, maybe it would have been better if I could have done those funerals, because I'm not a parent.

So I lay in bed riding the mental/emotional Waltzer and feeling thoroughly sick. I'm sure that was partly because I was feeling under the weather, but partly also because my work can be enormously demanding at times, even when I'm not actually doing the damn job.