On the way to the train station of a morning, I often stop for a cuppa at one of the several coffee shops on the High Street of our small Hertfordshire town. From there, I have a great view of a plush funeral parlour, with an opulent flower-decorated coffin in the window, right next door to a much more plain-looking Holland & Barrett health food shop. It’s a good place to ponder life’s futility and get depressed.
There’s nowhere you can hide from funeral parlours in our town. They are so pervasive that at times you start feeling guilty for still being alive. Let’s face it: we are all going to die one day. I know it for a fact after my previous “first life” effectively came to an end on the day of my defection from the USSR in January 1990. But I also believe that one of the most amazing human qualities is that we are able to ignore the fact of our inevitable deaths almost all the time. In this connection, I often recall an Air Mauritius advertising billboard I once spotted on the way to Melbourne’s Tullamarine Airport: “Fly Straight to Heaven!”
Well, most people would probably have nothing against ending up in heaven, but not necessarily in the middle of their long-haul flight and within the next several hours. To use another vivid allegory—which is also the title of Richard Holloway’s book about death and dying, Waiting for the Last Bus—we are all standing inside the bus shelter knowing that the proverbial “last bus” is going to pull over and pick us up sooner or later. But we probably wouldn’t want that very bus to chase us noisily along the streets.
In reality, the moment you turn 60 you are hounded by reminders of your mortality. Offers of discounted funerals and insurance deals “to help your loved ones after you go” start arriving regularly in your post box. These complement the over-flamboyant TV, radio and newspaper ads you are bombarded with from the companies that seem to regard funerals as a commodity and death as an excuse for a big party.
“Lose the mourners, the fuss and 60 per cent of the cost! Choose our pre-paid cremation plan from just £1,595!” read one bombastic ad in a national newspaper. And who exactly was it targeting? Definitely not the “mourners” whom it suggested to “lose”... Who, then? Two lines in small print underneath the main ad made it all crystal-clear: “Imagine a family-friendly farewell in your favourite place, at the weekend and in your own unique style. Discover how we make it possible.”
The ad was obviously aimed at the objects of cremation themselves! If so, what kind of posthumous “discovery” was it talking about, unless of course the cremation company had a strong belief in the afterlife?
I was so intrigued that I went straight to the company’s website—and didn’t regret it. The home page contained a photo of a blissful-looking elderly lady reclining in bed, with a smartphone in her hand and with headphones on, listening to, and possibly also watching, the recording... of what? Her own cremation?
Above the blissful photo was a link to “reviews” (!), with the word “Excellent!” above it and five stars underneath. Another case of afterlife communication? The reviews were all commending the “great service” and promising to “recommend” the company to relatives and friends. (I’m not sure about you, but I wouldn’t be too happy to receive such a “recommendation”.)
Now, let me pause here and ask: maybe there’s nothing wrong with trying to organise someone’s demise as if it were a small office outing? Maybe it’s okay to be upbeat and somewhat flippant about it all? Surely, all the jolly methods and procedures they describe seem preferable to the drab, formalistic and horribly insensitive burials and cremations in the USSR of my first life, with its chronic shortages of everything, including coffins and caskets, and ashes routinely given back to grieving relatives in polyethylene bags. On reflection, however, I decided both attitudes were equally bad, for they both erred on different sides of tactlessness.
The other day I received in the post yet another plea to “leave a cash sum to help your loved ones”, as if someone there could not wait to get rid of me. The pack invited me to take out a life insurance policy and tried to make me cough up with the following naff and tongue-tied printed gimmick: “I’ll never forget Dad’s silly sense of humour. Being a parent doesn’t stop when your life does... You are forever a parent. Read more about Life Insurance!”
Death seems a highly competitive industry these days, one with no qualms about promoting itself in every possible way. One of our town’s countless undertakers recently conducted an “open day” whereby one of their “posh” coffins was displayed in the street outside the parlour. Unsuspecting pedestrians were invited to get inside it, that is the coffin, to take selfies! My wife, who was passing by, declined the offer.
Assisted dying? Yes, I welcome the debate. Insisted dying? I’m not so sure.
