One of my favourite memes and one I often post on Twitter (or X or whatever the hell it is called these days) is a quote attributed to John Lennon, and what it says is this; Time you enjoyed wasting was not wasted. I kind of like that quote and it’s one that I often think about when I’m pottering about either reading, watching TV or surfing the internet.

Having the odd day just pottering about is good for the soul and for me, an opportunity to indulge in numerous cups of tea and sandwiches. I really do like my sandwiches.

Last week Liz and I went to a funeral and I suppose I’m at the age now (let’s just say mid-sixties) when I tend to see more funerals than weddings.

I can’t say I knew John, the deceased, particularly well and I was surprised to find that he was a foundling, abandoned as a baby and never knowing his birth family.

The service was good and in fact the vicar struck what I thought was the perfect note, not too sad and not too light hearted. John’s son by a first marriage was brought up in Canada and he seemed a very pleasant fellow recounting stories of the fishing adventures he and his father had in Canada.

The first ever funeral I went to was my Uncle Raymond’s. Raymond was my favourite uncle and the most wonderful guy. When I first started work when I was sixteen, going on seventeen, I used to get off my bus, the 152, at the Bluebell pub in Handforth after coming home from work in Manchester and Uncle Ray was there, waiting for the pub to open. Inside he chatted to everyone, the staff, punters he had never met before and at the drop of a hat would produce the photographs from his recent cruise showing him and my Auntie Elsie sat at the captain’s table. He would come back home with us, have dinner and then take my dad out to finish the evening off.

When he died his funeral cortège took a detour past the British Legion, one of his numerous watering holes, and the staff and customers came outside to pay tribute as his coffin passed slowly by.

The funeral was sad and tearful and the wake was pretty similar. A lot of sad people, a lot of tears and my dad, who had probably lost his best friend, was devastated. I was driving that day and was asked to run some long forgotten relative home. I did so and returned a short while later. Only twenty minutes or so had passed but when I returned, I returned to a happy, noisy, enjoyable party, full of laughter and fun. I don’t know what had happened in the twenty minutes I had been gone but I came back to exactly the sort of party that my Uncle Ray would have loved.

When my Gran died the funeral service was held in Marple, I’m not sure why as it was nowhere near where my Gran lived or was buried. The journey from there to Southern Cemetery in Manchester was for me, a masterpiece of motor car management, juggling with high water temperature and having to dive into a garage to top up my car with water.

At the graveside I noticed my dad making signs to the two grave diggers and after the coffin had slipped into the ground and the final words of the vicar had faded, my dad, a former grave-digger in years gone by, had a happy and joyful reunion with two of his old co-workers, much to the dismay of my mother who stood with me and cried her heart out. (Not your finest moment, dad.) At least he thought better of introducing her to his friends which I thought he was going to do at one point.

Funerals are odd things; in a way they are not for the dead but for the living, those left behind after a loved one has died and I have to say, not only did I enjoy my mother’s funeral, although enjoy is not perhaps the right word, but it helped me more than anything to say goodbye to her.

Back to this more recent funeral and as the drinks began to flow the sadness of the occasion seemed to ebb away. The only really disappointing issue was that the funeral was scheduled for 9:30am which for someone, who since retiring no longer has to get up early, was a bit of a challenge.

The buffet was served at 12 on the dot and despite there being quite a considerable gathering there was no concerted rush for the food in fact I was the one of the first to get up. I really do love funeral food. A buffet is comprised of pretty much everything I love, pork pies, sausage rolls and of course sandwiches. There were my two favourites, cheese and ham and there were also some rather nice cheese and tomato pizza slices. The tuna sandwiches were not my cup of tea at all so I avoided them like the plague. Still there were plenty of other delights for me including a lemon drizzle cake for afters.

A few years ago, I went with Liz to another funeral in Lytham. I felt distinctly out of place, an intruder even, as I did not know either the deceased or his family. There was however, a rather nice buffet which, under the circumstances, I felt it was important to do justice to. The world is full of wonderful food and some outstanding cuisines but I do think that there is nothing nicer than a pork pie. Some moist pork, some jelly, all encased in pastry, what could be nicer?

On that particular occasion the widow had seriously underestimated the demand for food and I did feel a little mean when I grabbed the last pork pie moments before a teary-eyed lady in black appeared and eyed the empty plate somewhat wistfully.

When I was introduced to her later, I could see from her expression she was trying to place me. As I smiled and offered condolences I saw the moment of realisation, and I almost heard her say in her mind ‘I recognise him- he’s the bugger who took the last pork pie!’

Some elements of this post came from a previous one so apologies to regular readers if it sounds familiar.

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