Death in all its coldness

It was Ralph's funeral today. A crematorium without a priest. I hate crematoriums. They're so soulless, conveyor belts of death with the next party queuing to enter as you leave, the standing about admiring the floral tributes, the lack of ritual. We didn't even have any hymns, just a tribute by his ex-neighbour. For someone who'd been so extraordinary, it seemed an undignified and unbefitting send-off. I wanted a Lancaster bomber to fly past or the Last Post to be bugled. Not this cold and unpassionate half hour. Half an hour to celebrate 84 years, three children, grandchildren, 50 years of marriage. It made me reflect on my own funeral and how glad I am that I survived the fall, the post-accident trauma and infections. I'd like photographs, music, addresses and readings from many people, a proper service - I like rituals. And then a big party with lots of champagne and great food, dancing. Death should be a celebration. I remember in my gap year I attended a Garifuna wake, an all night affair of partying and grieving and recollection and celebration, with the coffin in the house. That's what a funeral should be.