Best Laid (To Rest) Plans

(My grandparents die within six months of each other, and after the second funeral, my dad has lost his parents and was diagnosed with Parkinson’s, and I’m on my third funeral in eight months – it’s been a rough year so we’re more than a little drunk and a little maudlin.)

Dad: “When I go…”

Me: “Dad.”

Dad: “No. When I go, I don’t want you to be sad.”

Sister: “We’re going to be sad.”

Dad: “I don’t want you get all dressed up and stuff. I want to be put in a cardboard box, driven in a blue van, and buried under [his local pub].”

Me: “I’m not sure they’ll let us do that.”

Sister: “We’ll do it at night.”

Me: “What, with a stealth JCB digger?”

Dad: “I’m serious. Jeans, blue van, party.”

Me: “We can do that.”

Cousin: “Does the van have to blue, [Uncle]?”

Dad: “Yes. That’s the most important bit.”

(To this day he still wants to be buried in his jeans, in a cardboard box, and driven in a van. Though he’s more flexible on the colour.)