When I'm 64

www.paulcoia.com

My wife very nearly became a widow this week and I was not happy! Although I narrowly escaped death, she seemed disappointed and I think it’s the thought of my life assurance pay out. She could have bought a new pair of trainers and, if friends threw in another ninety pence, a pair of laces too.

When I say I nearly died, I’m not prone to exaggeration; in fact I was telling my millionaire neighbour this over his lambswool and cashmere hedge whilst workmen paved his driveway with gold bars the other day, so trust me when I say I was almost killed, ceased to be, shuffled off and was gone for good.

On Tuesday morning a speeding vehicle shot out from nowhere and raced past me missing me by the width of a hair on Billy Zane’s head. This, almost tragic, accident happened in Tesco’s supermarket - not in the road outside or in the car park, but inside the actual supermarket itself - as I jumped out of the way of a grey haired driver who carried on up aisle 3 in his motorised shopping scooter, oblivious to the potential carnage left behind. The floor looked like a murder scene, stained blood red as my cranberry juice crashed to the floor, and I was given mouth to mouth by a passing gay burlesque dancer.

Okay, I exaggerated the gay dancer thing, but everything else was true and I really did get the fright of my life. The driver was tiny, white haired and frail so could have been Bernie Ecclestone testing a new Formula 1 engine for all I know but, even though I was cursing, I secretly admired this ancient criminal who was obviously having a great, fun time as he disappeared at speed in to the fresh veg section. I think perhaps he goes around knocking people over so that he has plenty of funeral breakfasts to go to. The elderly just love a day out.

My grandmother and her sisters used to do that – not killing people you understand but putting on their serious faces and going to funerals on an almost daily basis. I think their reasoning was that you get to wear black which is slimming, there’s a bit of a singsong in church, some good food afterwards, and a great day out reminiscing about the old days. It’s cheaper than going to the Bingo.

I find the whole idea of funerals to be pretty everyday in that I seem to have been made to attend them since I was filling nappies, a habit I’ve now given up - that’s the nappies not the funerals. It’s probably the Scottish/Italian thing where not turning up for a funeral is seen as disrespectful, even if you don’t know the deceased. I’ve been to many funerals where I’ve had to bluff like mad when they’re closing the casket and saying “he looks just like himself, doesn’t he?.”

My mum is so inured to these occasions that she once, memorably, sniffed the air during a crematorium service and said out loud for everyone to hear, “there’s definitely something burning in here”. And I myself, to my shame, sat with a grieving family two years ago having prayed over the casket, banging a wobbly leg of a chair back in to place. I was not being disrespectful but had merely forgotten that for some, these occasions are rare and to be observed in silence. I hope the deceased understood. He certainly didn’t complain.

See, all this talk of dying and funerals is probably making you feel depressed but, to me, it’s, well, not quite a social outing, but definitely not something to be scared about. I’d hate you to misunderstand and think I enjoy these bereavements because I don’t, and I have a sneaking suspicion that I’ll enjoy my own a lot less.

I have been reading a book about how to become a more focused, motivated and better person and one tip they give is to imagine the eulogy at your own funeral. What would people say about you today and what would you like them to say about you when the time comes? The idea is that if the two don’t marry up then you now start to change your life so that the testimonials you get in the church are exactly the kind you would want. Well, my great fear is not about what they’ll say but that I’ll be throwing the party and no one will come. How sad is that?

I will be dressed in my best suit which will fit at last, and I’ll be lying there with my hair combed and the tombstone inscribed with “I told you my feet were cold”, but no one will come. I’ll have thrown out the usual “All Things Bright And Beautiful” and “Wind Beneath My Wings” songs and brought in some cheery ones like “Another One Bites The Dust” or “Highway To Hell” but there will be no one there to sing. The traditional finger buffet of sausage rolls and prawns will have been binned in favour of a hog roast and a chocolate fountain, but there will be no one there to eat.

Of course, I suspect that everyone fears this and that’s why, when the time gets nearer, people begin to think “what the hell” and start to behave badly, say exactly what’s on their minds despite other people’s feelings, and take up rally racing in Tesco’s supermarket. Hang the consequences and let’s have some fun while we can.

I curse them, while sitting back and admiring them. But, not being quite ready to get my best suit on and join them just yet, may I suggest we get them some driving lessons?