I own a flower shop and get several orders going to a funeral service. I call the funeral home to arrange for delivery, and someone I do not recognize answers the phone.

Me: “It’s [My Name] from [Flower Shop]. Can you let me know when and where you need the flowers delivered for [Deceased Man]?”

New Employee: “Yeah, umm, the family will be arriving at 9:00 am next Friday, so as close to that as possible after you open.”

Me: “Well, if the family is going to be there at 9:00, would it be better if I delivered the flowers the night before so you have time to set up before the family arrives?”

New Employee: “Oh, that’s a better idea, thanks.”

Me: “No problem. I’ll probably deliver them after I close at 5:00 on Thursday.”

New Employee: “Actually, could you deliver them before 4:00? That’s when [Regualar Employee] leaves for the day.”

Me: “I’ll see what I can do. If we have everything done by then, sure.”

New Employee: “Thanks, that would be great. Otherwise, I’ll have to deal with it.”

It is 2014, and same-sex marriage has been legalised in England, so my fiancé and I are planning our wedding despite having little money and, to be honest, even less of an idea of what we’re doing. I have been given a card with the number I have to call to book our ceremony at the registry office.

I have ADP — auditory processing disorder — so I struggle to hear properly on the phone, so when I don’t hear the answer of the man who answered, I just assume he introduced the registry office and immediately say.

Me: “Hello. I need to book a wedding, please.”

There is a pause.

Man: “I’m sorry?”

Nervous, I start to ramble.

Me: “I was given a card with this number on it? To book our wedding, I mean. And, um, they said they couldn’t do it in person, I had to call, and—”

Man: “Whoa, hold on. You’ve got the wrong number.”

This doesn’t quite sink in at first and I pause.

Me: “I have?”

Man: “Yes.”

Me: “Are you sure?”

That’s a stupid question, I know.

Man: “Very sure, mate, yeah.”

Me: “Oh. Um, where have I called?”

Man: “[Hometown] crematorium.”

Me: “Oh. Oh. No, that is definitely not where I wanted to call!”

I start laughing, which sets the man on the phone off, too. For a few moments, neither of us can get anything coherent out. Eventually, I get the card back out and read the local number back to him; it’s definitely correct. He starts to say something when I suddenly yell:

Me: “OH! Oh, I am an idiot!”

Man: “Nah, no, it can’t be you. You’re not the first; we’ve had a few people call about weddings!”

Me: “No, no, it’s me. I put in the wrong area code!”

The area code for a nearby town — who I actually needed to call — was very similar to the area code of my town! The man was glad to have that mystery solved, and I have been amused since then at having called the crematorium of all places to try and book my wedding.

And if you were curious, yes, we did somehow manage to pull the wedding together, minus cremations, and remain happily married to this day.

We rent out our chapel for funerals with a slight discount if they’re using the crematorium, as well. One family requested a three-hour service using both but started to balk at the price, so they chopped the first hour off the service and seemed happier with the price.

Fast forward to the day of the service. I’m doing some other work when I see that the family has arrived an hour early to start. I pop my head into our office to see if they’d changed their minds about paying the larger price and it hadn’t gotten to me. Immediately, our administrator stalks off to find the family.

After some discussion with them, it turned out they’d just figured it would be fine if they came early. They were quite unhappy when they found out that they would have to pay the three-hour fee if they wanted in our chapel early. We’ve allowed leeway before with other families, but never by that much, and certainly not when it comes across as skirting our fees. 

Related:
A Fee-ble Attempt At Avoiding The Fees

My grandma was… eccentric, to put it mildly. She was a slight kleptomaniac, she took no s*** from anyone, she raised eight kids alone after her husband died, she worked at a chocolate factory for thirty years because it meant that she and her kids had a steady supply of candy, and she absolutely loved throwing parties and having people over.

When she dies, we decide to throw her the best wake we can, and as such, almost everyone who comes brings cookies, coffee, soda, sandwiches, PLENTY of chocolate, and maybe a flask or two. The funeral home has a couple of sitting areas set up in the basement, so we stake one out and turn the wake into an all-day affair, with people coming in and out as they can. 

A couple of other wakes are going on, as well, and toward the evening, we notice a little boy from another wake, maybe seven years old, sneak over to the sitting area we’re using, steal a couple of cookies, and run back.

Me: “Did he just…?”

Aunt: “Yeah. Man, I would not have had the guts to do that at his age!”

Cousin: “To be fair, that family has been here for at least five hours; that’s pretty long for a kid that young.”

Aunt: “And we definitely have the better snacks!”

I look, and sure enough, the sitting area that the other family is using has coffee and a veggie plate — nowhere near as attractive to a little kid as our overflowing array of goodies.

Me: “You know, I think Grandma would’ve approved. Remember when she stole the serving plate from the restaurant at [Uncle]’s wedding?”

That led into another round of stories about my crazy, awesome grandma and got us laughing too hard to be too upset. When his parents came down, the little boy kept glancing over, wondering if we were going to tell on him, but it was so much like something my grandma would’ve done that we couldn’t be annoyed. It was a nice laugh when we badly needed one!

This story is part of our Gorgeous Grandmas roundup!

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(Being a funeral home, we get a lot of prank calls. This is a frequent call.)

Me: “Good afternoon, [Funeral Home]. This is [My Name]. How may I help you?”

Caller: “Is this the line with the girls?”

Me: “Pardon?”

Caller: “The line to talk to the girls. I have something here that’s eight inches long and two inches thick.”

Me: “I’m sorry, sir. We only handle one type of stiff here.”