The elephant at the funeral

As a general rule, funerals are not amusing.

But if it's a more distant family member who had been suffering for quite sometime and you're not as grief-stricken as you might be in other cases, and you couple that with the fact you've got a family like mine in attendance ... well then, there will probably be, at least at some point, embarrassed giggling.

At the end of March my Gran's older sister died. I got a text from my mum at work. It was mostly about something else but had that news tagged onto the end of it in a kind of Trevor MacDonald 'And finally' type way.

I sent a text back asking my mum if she thought I should go to the funeral. 'If you can, that would be best' came the reply. My mum doesn't normally make any demands of me so that was akin to her saying 'yes, you really should.'

Luckily, the funeral was on Easter Monday and I was off work so I didn't have to use one of my holidays. Then it struck me that the funeral would be in the church. I mean the church. It was a major thing for me because the last time I was in that church was for my own wedding. I hadn't set foot in it since that day and I wasn't sure how I'd react. Maybe I'd get there and I wouldn't be able to do it. Maybe I'd start crying. Well, crying at a funeral that's not too weird. Maybe I'd be OK.

I went out to Katy's leaving night on the Friday and noticed a missed call from my mum on my way home. I called her back.

Mum: I didn't want to ask you.
Me: Ask me what?
Mum: I didn't want to ask you, but you're dad said I should let you decide.
Me: Decide what?
Mum: Your gran asked your dad if you'd say a few words about her sister at the funeral.
Me: What? Seriously?
Mum: I know. I know. I didn't want to ask you.
Me: Doesn't gran think it might be hard enough for me coming back to the church without having to walk down the aisle, stand up on the altar and face everyone?
Mum: I know darling. I don't think you should do it. It's far too much for you.
Me: It is. I thought I was doing really well with actually going. Now if I don't do this, I'll feel like a big failure.
Mum: You're not a failure. I'll just say that you're not doing it.
Me: Yeah. Besides, I don't even really know Gran's sister. What would I say? I normally just make stuff up when I have to speak, but that's not really appropriate at a funeral. I'd probably end up saying something like: 'It's a little known fact, but Margaret was a talented gymnast who was on her way to competing at the Rome Olympics'. I mean, that's interesting and poetic, and good speech material, but it's not true.

In the end, the funeral was fine and there was no swell of nostalgia or pain or any feeling at all really, when I walked into the church. I was sitting next to my dad who nudged me when the priest walked past.

Me: What is it?
Dad: Did the priest give you a wee nod there?
Me: I don't think so. I wasn't really looking.
Dad: Aye, aye, he was. He just gave you a wee nod there as went past just to say 'I see you and I know you and eh, thanks for coming and I acknowledge you and eh, aye'.
Me: Right.

At the graveside I was standing with Liam and my younger cousins Claire, Michael and Nicole. Liam asked Claire who the guy with my cousin Nicolas was. "That's his pal George," Michael said. "He brought his friend to his Gran's sister's funeral? What's going on there?" "I know," said Michael, "it looks a bit gay eh?" "I'll say" said Liam. Michael shouted Nicolas over. "Nick, Nick, where's ... eh ... George?" Nicolas came over. "Eh, he's over there. How?" "Aye, we're just thinking it looks a bit gay eh?" "Piss off."

Afterwards we went to the golf club for tea and sandwiches. I didn't really want to be there, but thought it would be rude if I didn't show face, especially as my mum and dad had left for Barcelona after the church service. I was sitting at the end of a long table full of my Gran's sisters-in-law and cousins. Thankfully, Liam, Claire and Cameron were next to me.

Isobel, my auntie Karen's mother-in-law, smiled and said 'you're looking well Lisa'. I smiled back, said thanks and hoped nobody else would take too much notice of me. However, with my dad's auntie Margaret from Zambia in attendance there was never going to be any chance of that. In a booming theatrical voice (think Elaine C Smith after 35 years of White Mischief in the African sun) and from the other end of the table she said "And when do we get to read the book you've written about that bastard?"

My cousin Claire has always had the rather impressive ability of being able to speak without moving her lips at all. "Oh my God, oh my God, I can't believe this. This is excruciating. She better stop now. Oh my God, Lis. Oh my God." Liam, my wonderfully supportive baby brother, was creasing himself with laughter. "Haha. Quality."

I smiled back at her. "It's not about him," I said, "it's about me."

"Good for you. Stick it right up him." I couldn't help but laugh at that one. "This is unbelievable," Claire said to me, still without moving her lips. "Does it even have to be mentioned at all?" Margaret must have made a few more comments that I didn't hear, because my gran put on her firm tone when she said: "Margaret."

My gran decided to take this opportunity to apologise for asking me to speak at the mass for her sister. "I just wasn't thinking. And then when your dad said ... I just couldn't get over it. I was so angry at myself for not thinking. The priest was round last night and I said 'Oh Father, you'll never believe what I've gone and done. I wasn't even realising this would be her first time back in the Church'. He was asking after you, you know. He was wondering how you're getting on and if you've met someone else yet."

(I'd heard about priests not giving you long between children, but I figured they'd take a different stance on time between husbands. Obviously, I'd figured wrong.)

"And I just said 'well no Father. Not yet.' And he said to me: 'but she will. She's a lovely girl and she'll get somebody nice I'm sure of it.' So there you are." Liam was laughing so hard some of his cider was running out from his mouth. Claire had gone manic with embarrassment for me and was saying things like: "Lis, I need to get you out of here. This is unbelievable. We'll just get up and walk towards that door. I've seen the quickest route and we can just go for it."

My gran wasn't done though. She put her hand on top of mine and said: "The Father would like to see you married again. And I'd like to see you married again." (I'm thinking 'oh my God, why??? Why would you wish that on me? I'm happy. I'm really happy. I'm happy with my freedom and my lack of responsibility and my casual, albeit sometimes embarrassing, sexual encounters'.)

Everyone at the table was listening by this point and expressing various degrees of the pity head tilt. My Gran's brother had joined the table and said in extreme disbelief: "Have you not met anyone new yet?" "Hahaha (nervous laughter) ... not especially no." He turned to the rest of the table and said: "you sometimes find that with the really braw lassies though don't you? It's sometimes the really bonnie ones that struggle." At this point Liam spat out his drink and was in the grip of a full-on belly laugh. I wanted nothing more than to stand up and point out that I wasn't struggling, I was actually choosing not to get too involved with anyone, and to give my gran a detailed list of exactly what I'd been up to so she could pass it on to the Priest.

But I just smiled and said "thanks uncle Mike, there's a compliment in there somewhere ... I think."

Gillen's the name ...

... good old-fashioned hilarity's the game.

My busiest and most successful week yet in my new job meant I was on a bit of a high as I caught the 1600 to Liverpool (via York) to spend the weekend with Jennifer.

Our group presentation (the Big Brother spoof) at the departmental away day was extremely well-received, my knowledge of Bond films meant my group got all the answers to the energiser quiz, and my personal presentation on a Rough Guide for Chavs in Edinburgh went down a storm in the afternoon. In addition, the real work moved along at pace and I feel like I'm really starting to understand things. Nice one.

The social side of life was better yet with Sam and I enjoying a Bon Voyage meal at the Grain Store on Monday night, Mog and I enjoying an 'I need a rant' meal at the King's Wark on Wednesday night, and the dizzying combination of after-work drinks and the Tiny Monkey gig on Thursday. Thoroughly knackered, I stayed just long enough to applaud Keith and his fellow monkeys at the end of their set. Reading about the trials and tribulations of TM on Keith's blog over the past few months meant I was more nervous for them than I ever needed to be - they did indeed rock! Go the Monkey!

Friday at work was a bit of a joke as I turned up at 10am, went for lunch at 11.45, returned at 2.15pm and got a taxi to the station at 3.30. Various comments about allergies to pieces of office equipment, and work in general, ensued.

It took 4.5 hours to get to Lime Street but the wait was well worth it. A woman in an outrageously short, sparse and tacky outfit asked me a question as I was walking along the platform. I told Jen about it and she replied: "Oh yes, the fetching green number. I swear, until I moved here last month, I didn't realise that Atomic Kitten were actually classy and sophisticated." Oh how I've missed my friend.

Jennifer had a shocking cough. I'd always put her down as someone who's bite was every bit as bad, and probably worse, than her bark, alas, on this occasion she was reduced to a cliche. We enjoyed a Thai takeaway and some wine as we caught up on the immediate stuff. Jen showed me to my room, apologising for the fact that this was the only room the owners had neglected to decorate. The next morning after a fantastically comfortable night's sleep, I told Jennifer that the only thing the room was missing was a kitsch picture of the Virgin Mary above the bed. There was an unused picture hook in the correct place and I suspect this may have been the one item the owners took with them. I'm not sure if anyone else gets what I mean here, but some rooms just feel so Catholic. This was kind of how I imagine a priest's bedroom might look, only with Stargazer lilies for decoration as opposed to young boys.

Saturday afternoon was spent at the Docklands where Richard and Judy used to film, and the giant floating weather map was moored. Sadly both Richard and the oversized wobbling items have moved on. The former Miss Gillen and I enjoyed the offerings of the Tate while she told me about her lukewarm relationship with her married name. She is now Mrs Sloan, but doesn't like having to say it and is pretty convinced that when she booked a table for an upcoming meal the woman recorded her name as 'Slod'. Unfortunate.

Jen and I share a contempt for the pretentious wankfest that is modern art, but I have to admit the upper two floors of modern shite were an absolute Godsend after enduring the Turner exhibit on the ground floor. Jen overheard a couple discussing the merits of one of Turner's paintings: "The light in this painting is exceptional," said the woman. "Yes," agreed the man, "it has an almost ethereal quality wouldn't you say?". Shite! In my opinion, Turner and Constable are pretty much the same in that their paintings are dull, dreary, depressing and generally quite pish. Don't get me wrong, the art upstairs was 90% pish too, it's just that most people will actually admit it's pish while they seem to have to pretend that Turner and Constable are excellent examples of arty wonderfulness.

An early dinner of top notch tapas was thoroughly enjoyed before we headed off to Oddbins to stock up for an evening in front of the TV. As we drove back to Jen's, I noticed that the names of shops and bars in Liverpool were appallingly bad and difficult to fathom. There was McHale's Irish American Bar complete with a smog-rotted replica Statue of Liberty. Jen asked what made it Irish-American as opposed to just Irish. I had no answer other than perhaps they put pretzels rather than peanuts on the bar. There was also a shop called Kut-A-Bill. I have no idea what service it offered but did deduce that whatever it was, it was offered cheaply. Just in case the lame play on words didn't impress the idea of cheapness strongly enough, they opted to spell cut with a 'K'. Klassy. There was also some construction work going on under the banner of 'considerate construction'. Jen and I pondered what was so considerate about it and came up with the idea that perhaps the builders wore their belts tightly enough to keep their jeans from sliding half way down their arses.

Copious amounts of wine meant that our witticisms on Saturday night TV came thick and fast. Of course, with Celebrity Stars in their Eyes featuring Jade Goody and Charlene Tilton we couldn't fail.

On Sunday Jen showed me some pictures she and Derek had taken whilst living in Africa over the last couple of years. The scenery was truly stunning and the Rhinos were up-close and massive. A leisurely stroll through Sefton Park with some general musing and pondering of life was the perfect end to a much anticipated and enjoyable weekend.

It took 4.5 hours to get home on the train, but some quality time with a much admired and cherished friend was well worth travelling for.