Much talk about death lately in the stuff I read and on the airwaves.
On the radio coming home last night, there was a most interesting chat about Death Cafes. I wouldn't mind hosting one. Seriously. So very many people are squeamish about the grim reaper. But out here on the Edge? It would be a further notation on my "she's nuts, isn't she?" file.
What carries most people through the idea of their own death is the thought of the wonderful afterlife awaiting them surrounded by those beloveds
What would you do all day, I ask them.
Praise God, or some such form of an answer comes back at me.
Privately, I think: what an incredibly boring existence that would be.
I mean, I imagine meeting my mother in the afterlife. What on earth would we talk about? She'd know everything wouldn't she, having observed all and sundry, the bad and the good and the pitiful, in the 45 years since she left us.
"Mum, will I tell you about my play?"
"Oh my Pet I saw it all, it was great and your thought processes to get there were very interesting too."
"You'd have liked your great-granddaughter, Mum."
"Oh, darling, I watch her all the time, look, come sit down by me and we'll watch her together."
I mean seriously now, wouldn't you rather watch paint dry? Except I'm damn sure there's no paint in heaven.
And the praise God bit?
Wouldn't you think She'd have enough of that nonsense? You know hymns 'n psalms 'n stuff echoing unendingly 24/7 at Her from down here below already.
I mean I can see Her now. clutching Her eardrums, closing Her eyes, shouting at the billions of dead, now risen, at Her feet:
"For feck's sake, would you all get a bloody life?"