IF there’s one good thing about funerals, its that everyone looks good in black.
Vast expansive sunglasses can shield streaming red eyes, and as long as you can retain a modicum of composure and keep your posture, you can look like a movie star.
Most importantly though, draping yourself in black means that none of the light of a sunny interior can bleed through. You wouldn’t want that. Not at a funeral. That sort of thing is frowned upon.
I didn’t know him. I had met his son a few times. Batshit mental. I owed him 20 quid from a drunken braggadocio bet. Something about cheese graters and Tabasco sauce, all very messy but the swine upheld his side of the bargain. He went inside shortly after for glassing a lollipop lady in the face, and i never got around to paying him. “Hopefully time and buggery have affected his memory. Everyone’s walking through fog when they are mourning anyway. I just won’t mention it…”
I was there with my friend Pedro. He is some sort of family friend. He mentioned a Worthers original memory in the car about artery damming blunt weapon cheese sandwiches and games of Pong on a Binatone. Its amazing how the human brain can fashion something so mundane as outdated computers and unusually thick slices of cheddar into nostalgia.
I was there as stoical moral support. The emotionally unattached shoulder to cry on.
A lack of emotional attachment meant i could maintain my million dollar look all night. No dry sobs to ruin my perfect gait. Shoulders back, a pillar of strength in this awful time. Ego boost. Some good must come of today at least. It’s all so morbid…
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