Name that tune

 The dog and I are watching the funeral. We’ve downloaded the order of service and practised the hymns. Luckily they have printed the sheet music with each hymn, so I won’t accidentally be singing the version of The Lord’s My Shepherd from the Vicar of Dibley. 

We’ve watched the pipe bands, drum and trumpets, with perfectly timed marching and tried to guess the tune.

Now, the church is filling up. Boris and Carrie, Theresa and Phil, and Dave and Sam have just taken their seats. Tony and Cherie, John and Norma (I’ve missed Norma). The Long Suffering Husband has just asked if it’s only the living ex-prime ministers and I know you shouldn’t laugh at funerals but wouldn’t it be great if they wheeled out Thatcher?

It’s another queue. A queue of people in expensive shoes with good posture.

Now we are watching the worst bit for a family at a funeral. There you are, in the car, having a polo sucking competition and it stops and you know you have to get out and face everyone. 

The gun carriage is about to be loaded with the coffin and the sailors (more reliable than horses) are getting ready to pull it along. The tenor bell of Big Ben sounds again and we wonder how close to 96 we are.

The orb, sceptre and crown are balance on top of the coffin and we are collectively think, “Don’t drop it lads!” The LSH wonders if under the flag the Queen has chosen a modern cardboard coffin decorated with corgis.

It is quite a sight. Very moving.

The choir sing the sentences as the coffin moves through the church. If you are a practised choral singer you’ll hear the words.

“And though after my skin worms destroy this body”

Funerals never get less gruesome. 

I do love a funeral. There is some comfort in thinking that the bidding prayer is the same for everyone. And now I am singing. That’s a cracking hymn: great choice. It’s never easy to choose. At least the organist is playing the same tune (which isn’t something that happened at my mum’s funeral).

‘The last enemy that shall be destroyed is death’. How obsessed we are with immortality?  Thanks be to God. 

The choir sings a beautiful piece newly composed by Judith Weir and I think about how those boys don’t even know the pressure they are under.

In Liz Truss’ father’s house there are many mansions. I’m glad we’re not hearing about Stanley Johnson’s house. 

Now for mine and the Queen’s favourite hymn. 

Justin Welby says some more personal details. These are the best bits. The moment when you find out how well the vicar knew the person. Only the family ever knows if they get it right. 

 Parry. 

“What did you say?” The LSH asked, “Oh, Parry, Hubert.” The caption came up. 

It’s quite beautiful.

It’s a long service. It’s a Scottish minister now. A woman. A black woman im glad they let women into the church; they’re doing a good job at prayers.

 I love that it’s a team effort. 

What is a precentor? 

I check the dictionary : The person who leads the congregation in singing but the choir launch into Vaughn Williams.

Love Divine, All Loves Excelling. Another fabulous hymn.

The commendation followed  by a stirring new composition. Who shall separate us from the love of Christ? Nothing. Alleluia 

A blessing. The same for all of us.

Last Post. Tough gig. No one wants to crack that note. 

That’s powerful. All those images of a minute’s silence, not fully observed in our house because of sniffing as we have colds.

National Anthem. Get the pronouns right. Tears are pricking at the King’s eyes and he holds it together until the piper starts and the camera moves away. 

Sleep, dearie sleep - into the distance. Nice touch.

Bach on the organ with the right notes - never easy - opps I might have spoken too soon. 

There is a little fussing as the non-royal royals are removed and the coffin bearers return before going out into the sunshine, hat feathers blowing in the wind. 

The bands strike up Beethoven funeral March a the gun carriage moves through the streets of London. The TV tries to turn itself off and the dog surrenders to snoring. I watch, trying to identify all the funeral March composers that blend seamlessly from one to another: Beethoven, Mendelssohn and Chopin. 

If you were interested, you will have watched it for yourself. Whatever you got out of it I hope you are as relaxed as the dog or at least have cheese for lunch.