Your time will come...
I updated my will yesterday afternoon. A little bit morbid, I know, but the husband and I thought that it was far better to do it now rather than when we're in our dotage, drooling gently, and humming a song from Steps under our breath, having happily signed every penny we own to the local Schnauzer Rescue Home. Mind you, after the week I've had, that all sounds rather attractive.
Our financial adviser, The Talented Mr Ripley (I call him that, because that's his name) popped round yesterday afternoon, and between drinking tea, discussing career paths in financial consultancy (daughter number two) and shaking a horny schnauzer from his left leg, we managed to get it sorted out. This basically means that the husband and I can just get on with enjoying that fabulous thing called 'life', as all our proverbial ducks are in a row.
The only thing left to do is organise our funerals. Why is this so hard to do? Why do we avoid the conversation, leaving our loved ones to second guess what we want? I've warned the husband that he's got to give this some thought, and we're going to sit down over the weekend and draw up some plans. The way I deal with it is to pretend I'm organising a party (but with one less guest than originally planned) so my funeral will be a huge event of colours, singing, gin and hangovers - hopefully in that order.
But I am worrying about what the husband wants. He jokingly says that he wants something as cheap as possible with very little fuss, so I'm thinking of packing him into a suitcase and tipping him overboard into the English Channel from a P&O ferry. Mind you, if he pulls any more rotivator stunts like Sunday, that suitcase may not wait... It would have to be quite a big suitcase actually, as that bloody rotivator would be going in there with him.
Unlike the husband, I am a great believer in giving anything useful to anyone who wants it after I've shuffled off this mortal coil, and I have joked with the husband that what's left after all the useful bits have been removed would probably fit into a baked bean can. This would save greatly on the funeral costs, as he could just stick me in the back of the cupboard with that can of unsweetened grapefruit segments which no one seems to want to eat. (Two years that's been there, and not a whiff of interest). However, there's always the chance the tins might be mixed up as time goes on.
Some breakfast that would be...