Funk to funky

After the funeral, the ash spreading. To Bournemouth one more time with the three people who loved him most (mother, son, ex-wife), and as I love two of them and at the very least like the third a lot, that has to be some kind of recommendation.

A very nice man in black gave us a few minutes to choose a place in the grounds of the crematorium; the only real contender was the one evergreen, a pine that kept its needles while all trees around it were bare. Then he spread the ashes in a circle around the base and I read Psalm 23, my ex-mother-in-law-in-law getting too choked after verse 2. No great drama, very peaceful and a real sense of closure. The cemetery is close to a school and as we stood silently the playground racket came drifting over the trees. Surrounded by all these lives at the end of the great race, a reminder of those just starting the course.

Afterwards we asked at the crem office for the range of possible memorials. The Boy and EMiLiL seem pretty set on a memorial bench. My ears first pricked up when the lady there said "Well, a 10-year lease ..."

Lease?

Then I think my ears hit the ceiling as she went on to say "... is £700 ..."

Seven hundred ...

Okay, it amortises to £70 p.a. but even so ... Look, when I go, just give £700 to a struggling writer and we'll call it quits.

The Boy drew the line at having a cup of tea in his dad's bowls club - preferring to sit in the car and read Making Money - but he was there for all the important bits and we're all very proud of him. Symbolically of something or other, he went down to Bournemouth in the back seat and came home in the front. We're pretty certain he's now taller than his mother - when he stands up straight and she flattens her hair down - so it seemed only right.

En route on the way down we passed through Christchurch to eat our lunch at the quay. I took this picture of the swans enjoying the total absence of tourists that January brings.