Day Off From Death

Imagine if you could have a day off from Death. Not in a tricky, King Midas kind of way - just a day when you knew, no matter what, you weren't going to die that day, or later on, from the consequences of anything you did that day. Maybe we could have one such day each in our adult lives - is that too much to ask, a single day in a lifetime? What would you do with your 24 hours? Stay up later than you would otherwise, indulging in that extra-chocolate cream and whiskey confection? Risk that tempting leap across the balcony, and the ensuing wrath of the neighbour? Deliberately not brush your teeth?

This occurred to me this morning as I was cooking a recovery breakfast - grilled halloumi cheese, mushrooms and tomatoes cooked gently in olive oil with a clove of garlic, three slices of brown toast, cup of tea, milk no sugar. I was recovering from the 18th birthday party of a colleague. I started to muse that I was nearly up with my month of Death, and of all the subjects I have this year lured into the torrid den of Blog of Funk, it is the subject to which I feel I have done the least justice.

Always full of invention, I started at one point to list the dead people I knew, and to write a line or two about each one - but, a line or two?? I am all for stretching and developing the form (of anything, blogging included) but I cannot in conscience reduce these departed souls, some of whom are still present to me in my everyday life, to a glib string of syllables. Then I thought, how about writing extra short obituaries for famous people who are not dead yet? Like:

Nelson Mandela: Successful Insurgent



Two people connected with me have real life-or-death battles on their hands, and my daily muse is affected by this and by the fear and grief and suffering of the people close to them. I sometimes feel like a drunk who has wandered into a hospice, with sick and dying people all around, clinging to their lives as best they can for as long as possible, as their end draws visibly toward them, savouring each last drop, each breath more precious than the last, while I cavort like a joker at the end of the bed, spill wine on the bedsheets, and fondle the nurses.

But if that is to be my role, then I accept it, although I am wondering who will play that part for me, when this day is over.

Gallows humour aside, I am unsatisfied with my writing on Death. If I was working less hard, I might find the space to deepen my thought. It is just too big a subject for one month of blogging.

Maybe I will come back to it.

Meanwhile, I found this on Ananova:

Serbian who faked his own funeral now selling his grave

A Serbian pensioner who faked his own funeral while he was still alive to see who'd turn up is now selling his grave.

Vuk Peric from the village of Gornji Stupanj near Arandjelovac, organised his funeral five years ago to see who would pay their respects.

He sent out the funeral invitations himself, put a fake death notice in the paper and then watched the service from a distance.

Eventually, he revealed himself, thanked everyone for attending and then invited them to come to his wake.

"I wanted to see people smiling at my funeral and was curious who would come for the last seeing off," he told Serbian daily newspaper 'Vernje Novosti'.

Peric, who has been described as gambler, is in his late 60s but refuses to reveal his real age. The grave and its tombstone are the only property he has left.

"I was running an exciting life even the last few years after my death and the beginning of my new life," he said.

However, while the price of the used grave and tombstone is negotiable, no offers have been made yet.

Deek Deekster: Not Dead.