Dear Philippa

I have been thinking about death. Not, as is increasingly popular, in the context of a one-way flight to Switzerland but rather along the lines of making sensible arrangements for disposal. It began about a year ago when I revised my will – asset disposal. This was a straightforward process, even fun, and made easier by the fact that here in rural North Yorkshire solicitors make house calls in the way GPs used to do. The “letter of wishes” attached to the will was the most fun and has the potential for future satisfaction because it can easily be changed without calling the lawyer back, allowing for frequent cost-free revisions. If one of the children buys me a cheesey Christmas present it will be the work of a moment to alter the “wish” so that the Mont Blanc fountain pen goes instead to an unpopular member of the family. If a barmaid winks at me in a promising way, why – she shall have that little watercolour so much admired by those who seem to visit me more frequently as the years roll on. You get the picture. Or rather you don’t.

Then there is the other disposal, that of remains. A grimmer prospect. I have always assumed that I would be cremated, the cleaner, greener option, perhaps in a coffin made of reeds and this is reflected in earlier versions of my will. I have changed my mind; burial is now my choice, in a sturdy coffin fashioned from expensive English oak, none of your MDF rubbish. This morning I sprang into action to keep a nine o’clock appointment with the sexton at Old Malton cemetery to pick my spot. There was the view to consider. In one direction the A64 by-pass is in sight, not an especially pleasing prospect it has to be said but if the climate change zealots are proved right, an unlikely eventuality in my opinion it could become a sea-view. But the other way caught my eye at once – a couple of hundred yards away The Royal Oak public house is plainly visible, with Settrington Wold beyond. Perfect. I confirmed my decision with the sexton, a cheerful man who clearly has a relaxed and affectionate relationship with his charges, and there I am – or there I shall be. And what a bargain – £210 for a 99 year lease, or £420 if you are unlucky enough to live outside the parish, and if I had opted for York it would have been nearer £800.

It’s important I think to find a pleasant resting place, not only for one’s own comfort but also for delight of the steady stream of the distraught trudging along on significant anniversaries with small bunches of flowers inexpensively purchased at petrol stations, those that is who were not disappointed by the will. Deeply wailing, in the words of the hymn, will be the order of the day.

Greatly cheered by my morning’s work, I hurried off to the supermarket where I found ahead of me at the checkout Marion, the landlady of The Royal Oak, with whom I shared news of my purchase, telling her that I expected her every Thursday evening at seven (my pie night commitment) to look across the graveyard and give a little wave. In due course that is. She and the girl at the checkout responded with gales of laughter, thinking I was making this stuff up, but once I convinced them that I was serious they were horrified. What their attitude amounted to was that it is to them unthinkable to make a purchase in anticipation of an eventuality one does not much care to contemplate, but what sort of an attitude is that? If we were to be guided by this principle we would never buy toilet rolls, which I couldn’t help noticing Marion was doing as we spoke.

The sexton congratulated me on my wisdom and foresight, adding that if one were to leave one’s wishes unclear a part of the family would start making arrangements and then someone would “pop up” (his very words) and say “Oh no. It’s not what he wanted at all!”. When a sexton refers to people popping up you need to seek clarification.

Next task is to plan the funeral, not a small task. There’s the guest list to think about, the venue for lunch, the seating plan, the choice of hymns – music to drive even the indifferent into paroxysms of grief. I don’t want anyone coming away looking consoled.

Best wishes

Howard