Last Rites

It wasn’t our funeral, but somehow we’d got stuck in the middle of a convoy of big black limousines and shunted back to what must have been the home of the deceased.

From our little car we watched them pass through the gates and disappear inside. ‘Come on,’ I said to Jill, ‘I reckon they owe us one, and with that crowd they’ll never notice us.’

Cognac, Armagnac, it hit the spot. ‘They should do a Michelin Guide to some of the cemeteries they have over here,’ I said. ‘Crosses for interest, skulls for atmosphere.’

Tables were laden with food and wine. ‘The funeral baked meats did coldly furnish forth the marriage table.’ I smacked my lips. ‘Hamlet .’

‘Alas, poor Yorick.’ Jill waved her glass. ‘Like one of your skulls.’

I handed her a plate and fork. ‘Better eat something.’

‘A Funeral baked bean?’ She collapsed with laughter and slid to the floor with a bowl of mayonnaise.

‘I think I’m going to be sick,’ she said next.