End Game Blues.

You know, for most of my life I’ve believed that I’ll be present at my own funeral, doing the rounds, poking people and saying ‘Oh come on, one of you must be able to see me. No dear, don’t scratch. It isn’t an itch, it’s ME!’ But now something’s worrying me.

If I have trouble throwing away an old, beat up pair of shoes, how am I going to feel about seeing the thing I’ve got so used to thinking of as me being put in a hole in the ground and covered over? Or, maybe worse, being thrown on a fire like a spent cigarette butt?

It brings me back to a little strangeness of mine. I’ve long felt that I would like to die alone and somewhere so remote that nobody will ever find the body, and then in fifty years time somebody will say (in idle mode while downing a pint at the pub) ‘Well, he must be dead by now, mustn’t he?’ Cheers.