It was a tragedy. Cousin R caught a cold on the golf course and promptly dropped dead. Now everyone was gathered for his less than conventional funeral. This included not only a scruffy, elderly bride in a dirty mauve dress (we picked her up at the London Street roundabout), but also multiple, differently-sized coffins lined up at the front of the chapel. Perched on a pew between my weeping father and middle sister I cast a glance at the order of service. All the mourners and their achievements were listed. There had been a mistake with our entries. Under “cousins” two professions were noted, but I was neither a librarian nor the director of a global pharmaceutical research and information service. Then the all-white rap band took the stage and everyone loved the music, especially the grand finale. The players usefully made a commercial for their services before they left.
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I was in big trouble with my mother. How could I explain that the reason why I travel naked by train is that it’s warmer in the carriage if you sit in a hot bath under one of the large tables?
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My date was very handsome, if a little pale. This was our second outing so it was time for me to broach the subject of his “situation”. I wish I hadn’t: it was all bad news. He was a homeless drug addict already with a girlfriend who subbed him twenty quid a day to feed his habit.
