Given all the hoopla and media masturbation over the death and burial (always the best order, eh, Mr Poe) of Thatcher Thatcher Milk Snatcher or the Grocer's Daughter, beloved of all...right wing nutters, we were discussing how we'd like to be "sent off", around the dinner table this evening. At least, I think it was because of the Funereal Event of the Decade (so far) and not because of what I had dished up. In retrospect, it could have been a combination.
I said I wanted to be left in the middle of a busy road so I can be annoying even in death, but my husband has class: he said he wants to rot on a plinth - nice.
The boys don't seem too traumatised by the discussion, but I know they're both really disappointed neither of us opted for turning into a Zombie.
My funeral tune of choice has to be "I'm Not Okay (I Promise)" - My Chemical Romance.