Blacker Than Most

A large and emotion-heavy funeral at the start of the week was held for a young man who despite disabilities had achieved a lot with his short life. Many of his friends came from the deaf community and the service was simultaneously translated into British Sign Language. One of the two Sign interpreters was a woman with a coloured stripe in her hair, pierced upper lip and big boots and clearly belonging to some Alternative community, so that was nice (though you can argue that the Deaf world is alternative enough).

Then today I was carrying out the interment of the ashes of a lady who'd lived in Swanvale Halt most of her life though died elsewhere. It wasn't done through the local undertakers so I had to prepare the plot myself, jabbing my spade into hard, dry ground in the June heat. Four inches down in this bit of the churchyard seems to be mostly stone.

The family group consisted of the deceased lady's two daughters and the husband of one, and four grandchildren. The eldest came in full Goth rigout: makeup, shoes with skeleton-hand fastenings,  parasol, the lot. She looked at me in my waistcoat and jacket.

Her: Do you not get hot dressed like that?
Me: Well, at least you can't ask me whether it's tough wearing black all the time.
Her (trying very hard not to laugh): That is true.

I strove to be as professional as I could but had to bite my lower lip a couple of times.