When Death Comes Home.

My Uncle died a few weeks ago. He was a funny old Paddy with his melodious patter and glinting eye. In accordance with Irish tradition, his send off was an alcohol fuelled affair. My considerably sized family came from far and wide; my own father and sister having travelled from Australia especially to see him before he went to that big betting shop in the sky. Interestingly, no blood was spilt at the wake. Certain members of my family have what the Americans colloquially call 'Issues'.

The funeral itself gave me an opportunity to re-experience the occasion from the mourners point of view; an experience thankfully rare but sorely lacking amongst many of us in production line, corporate funeral care. My company didn't conduct the funeral, thank god. I must say however, the funeral was brilliant, but for all the wrong reasons. London has had a lovely spell of weather lately but on the day, It pissed down. Of course the Irish philosopy demanded that; ''Happy is the corpse that the rain falls upon'', but I doubt Uncle Jim was overly concerned. He was dead after all.

The service was a proper Catholic affair; all thuribles and aspergillums. My cousins lined up for communion and forgot what they were supposed to say after receiving the sacrament. Amen would have done. An opera singer from the west end production of 'The phantom of the opera' was hired to sing 'Ave Maria'. It was awesome and clumsy yet comforting.

Outside, our three stout lim drivers had parked their 3 stout Daimler limousines in the path of egress of an apoplectic minicab driver. He revved his VW Sharan and abused a family friend in some sort of Urdu/English hybrid dialect. To his credit, our lim driver stormed over, whipped his door open, told him to 'Have some fucking respect' and threw the minicab drivers keys into a bush. The cabbie stormed around our limousine, taking photo's with his mobile and waving his fist. Later, I wondered what I would have done in the same situation. I probably would have smacked him in the head. Driving in a professional capacity in a place like London wears your patience down. Back in rural Australia, such an outburst from a motorist towards a funeral cortege would be unthinkable. I can imagine such a situation in a place like Idaho would be equally unfamiliar. In London however, you drive defensively and you give as good as you get. It's a bloody jungle out there.

Things weren't to get better for our poor beseiged driver. The cremation ceremony went beautifully, but on the return trip to the pub a Mercedes with French number plates clipped the tail of our car in the pouring rain. Having exchanged details, he jumped back into the drivers seat, soaking wet and apologising profusely. At this point, I felt obliged to ask him to shut up, and to tell him that I was a lim driver myself and that he'd done a sterling job. I hope he felt better.

From then on it was a matter of free alcohol and pithy speeches from teary old, booze-soaked Irishmen. As my fathers eldest son, I was entrusted with delivering a speech from my teary old, booze-soaked and absent father. It was all very agreeable and a lovely tribute to a much loved man.

Sometimes when we conduct a funeral, we take our clients grief for granted. It can be easy to forget that the coffin you're bearing contains the remains of somebodys loved mother, brother or perhaps a lovely old Irish uncle. What's nice though, is that despite the often inevitable indifference and feigned sympathy one might feel towards a families mourning, we can still act with a dignity and respect that the occasion demands, even If that means you need to tell an irate minicab driver to have some fucking respect.