Hannah Jones reflects on the peculiar conversations that only seem to happen at funerals. Not about death itself, but about the truly important things in life: the superiority of Prestige pans, why Oil of Ulay changed its name, and whether demi-waves have disappeared forever.
Funeral Memories and Ordinary Details
At a recent funeral, Jones found herself reminded of every other funeral she had attended. What stays with us, she notes, is rarely the eulogies but the small details: which one ran out of ham sandwiches, which one ended with ABBA. Grief sneaks into the ordinary and gives it a poke.
When news of her mother-in-law Mam Jones's death arrived, there wasn't much talk of feelings. Her son Posh Paws sat in shock while Jones busied herself making tea. Then Bossy from down the road, a former post office worker, announced: “If I were you, I’d get at least eight death certificates.” She added, “Especially when you’ve got to think about the buffet.” Somehow, that was comforting.
Life Goes On Amid Grief
Life doesn't stop. The bins still need putting out, EasyJet continues flying overhead. Grief shares a room with the humdrum of life. Questions arrive thick and fast: Who's taking the service? What songs did she like? What's happening to her fancy blue Denby set?
Posh Paws's mother had intended to donate her body to medical research, but the boffins politely declined. So there would be a funeral and a buffet. Locally, everyone wanted “that woman who did Mrs Davies’ funeral.” Seventeen years later, she's still famous for her fruit skewers. “Best buffet I ever had,” Bossy says. “And we didn’t pay that much.”
The Best Funeral Buffet
Mrs Davies's funeral had ABBA's Dancing Queen playing as the service ended. “Nobody stopped grieving, but people remembered her rather than merely mourning her,” Jones writes. Bossy added, “She’d have loved those fruit skewers even more.”
Jones recalls another funeral where she sat beside the grandmother of the deceased. They discussed washing lines, Prestige pans, and the mystery of Oil of Ulay becoming Olay. They talked about butter—proper butter, not margarine. The grandmother said, “I do love a funeral, mind. Even if it’s for one of my own.” She lamented that at a previous funeral, the sandwiches were made with margarine. “It put a right downer on an otherwise lovely day,” she said darkly.
Grief in the Ordinary
Jones concludes that we cling to ordinary things because grief is too big and words too small. Seventeen years after Mrs Davies left, people still smile when they mention her. Between giant strawberry scones, fruit skewers, and Dancing Queen, she left behind enough stories to keep a front room going for years. “Maybe that’s all any of us can hope for,” Jones writes. “Not statues. Not blue plaques. Just that years from now somebody might be balancing a paper plate on their knees and saying: ‘Do you remember her?’”
