Tomorrow sees the scattering of my
father's ashes in the Garden of Remembrance. A friend has assured me
that each day at the crematorium a single furnace is lit and all the
day's coffins put in it together. I suggested, therefore, we should
seek a DNA test before scattering what were alleged to be our
father's ashes. But my two sisters reconciled their Catholic-Jewish
differences and overruled me. The sisterhood.
The gate of the cemetery in which the
crematorium is to be found is virtually opposite the gate of a park
in which my father used to play golf both Saturdays and Sundays.
Occasionally, under duress, I would caddy for him and when we left
the park and drove past the cemetery my father would always say “You
know, that's the most popular place in town. People are dying to get
into it.” And then, “You know that it's the dead centre of town.”
I hated this ritual. So, what do I do now when I drive past it with
my daughters? You've guessed it. I enjoy the groans.
As Executor to my father's will, I
spent most of the day dealing with lawyers and the Land Registry over
the documents required for me to obtain Probate. Or, rather, I
didn't. I actually spent less than an hour on the phone and the
internet, filling in application forms and getting almost
instantaneous replies. I actually spent more time chucking out 99% of
the papers my mother had accumulated over the last 10 years.
What can one say about the panoply on
show in Rome and the massive media attention being accorded to the
Papal circus? Well, one thing at least – If he returned to earth
now, Jesus would surely find the wealth and extravagance of the
Catholic Church far more offensive than a few money-lenders in the
temple.
Talking of the Catholic Church . . . I
think we can safely assume that sexual abuse didn't just start in the
20th century and that it's been happening since whenever
priests were required to suppress their sexual drive under a vow of
celibacy. I believe this was an 11th century development, so let's
take a thousand years at an average derived from 20th century
numbers. And we arrive at 'rather a lot'. Again, surely not
something Jesus would be proud of. Even if he did know it was going
to happen.
Well, the multicultural linguistic tide
may be turning here in the UK. Readers may recall that, when I was in
Leeds last year, I noted that leaflets from the Council were
available in at least 12 languages. This was always crazy but the
political situation may now be such that one is finally allowed to
say so. According to the Secretary for Communities and Local
Government, translating documents is “very expensive and a poor use
of taxpayers’ money”. I'll say. Not before time, he also said
that providing translations “actually served to divide communities
rather than unite them.”
Finally . . . The street I forgot last
night was Hope St, where I and my friends attended the HQ of the 28th
Wallasey scout troupe. And where we rehearsed for our fantastic
annual Gang Show at the Floral Pavilion, down on the New Brighton
seafront. Those were the days, eh KK?
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