It was my uncle’s funeral yesterday and I forgot to show everyone my socks.
I’ll be honest. I’d got myself in a bit of a tizz beforehand. Funeral dress code used to be so much simpler when it was smart black. Nowadays people mention colour and the lines of etiquette are blurred. I understand, though, they want their person’s life to be remembered with the full vibrancy that they lived it. I might have hysterically thrown a few clothes around the bedroom before deciding that a grey jumper was the most colourful I could manage. It wasn’t about clothes, though. Not really. No one wants to go to a funeral and the first of my mum’s family to die since my mum felt as though it might be difficult. My nod to colour came with my silly socks.
I needn’t have worried because convention gripped us all. The crematorium was packed (quite a testament to a 80 year old man) with smart dark colours and, according to the celebrant, colourful socks.
Funerals are quite nice, though, aren’t they? You say things like, “I’m so glad to see you. Whoops. Sorry. I mean it would be…in better circumstances.”
You smile and hug and wish you didn’t leave it until death to meet up. This becomes especially frightening when you might be the next one. I mean, I’m not getting any younger. After the service you shuffle out and stand in the cold for a while before heading to the pub for a much needed drink and a plate from the beige buffet. Then you chat and reminisce and life is good.
The next day is harder. You wake with cramp because you decided to wear heeled boots . You feel bereft and have a writing commission.
“Don’t let me down now. You promised,” were my cousin’s parting words. “I loved the 12 days of Cheesemas. There was one every day.”
“Oh, I don’t know. What shall I write about?” I feigned a lack of ideas.
“Just say something funny and she’ll write it,” said my sister rolling her eyes, having been the victim of that more times than she cared to mention. She is naturally funny. Oh no. I’ve done it again.
“Write about the farms,” my cousin said.
It was one of the brilliant conversations you have a funeral when you are examining your own life for it’s worth and wondering what would be said as a eulogy for you. We considered our regrets and my cousin told us hers.
“You know what I’d really like do?”she said, “Go off somewhere and have a farm. “
Fantasy farming.
We’ve all thought it. Especially at times when life feels to busy to bear. Chuck it all in, go off grid, have a collection of animals to stroke and let all your worries disappear. My Aunt and I talked about how when you want to do adventurous things like that you don’t have the time or money and then when you could run away you don’t have the energy.
My friend at work has this fantasy all the time. We send each other pictures of cows after a very tough day. For me, it’s fantasy farming; I think of the reality of cold and shit smells but my friend was a young farmer so maybe she will swan off and commune with the cows.
If my cousin was to make fantasy farming a reality I think she’d have pigs, which is why I wish I’d shown her my socks. Relatives tend to stay a particular age in your mind. This cousin is about 6. She was our bridesmaid and we saw quite a lot of her at that time. My parents took her to Marsh Farm and she pointed to the pigs and said, “I don’t suppose I could have one of those?” This is her legacy. We all say that now, whenever we see a pig. I say it every time I wear the socks.
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