Dead French

Maybe it’s all the philosophy, the introspection, the rampant hyperchondria…the garlic…the tight pants...who knows? All I know, is that the French attitude to death is…different.

Whilst driving through our nearest medium-sized town recently, we spotted a new shop. The garish red, blue and yellow plasticky façade screamed across the street at us.

We thought it was a new fried chicken restaurant.

But we were wrong.

Then we thought it was an internet café.

Erm..no.

Dog grooming salon?

Woof, no.

Sports shop?

Loser.

Burger joint?

No fries.

Funeral parlour?

Bingo!

In huge letters, beneath the name of the establishment, a snappy little slogan proclaimed: ‘Parce que la vie est deja assez chere!’ – which translates as ‘Because life is already expensive enough!’

Well. This got me thinking.

My first thought was to inform Spouse that if I happen to indulge in a bit of premature-clog-popping, should he choose that particular company to send me on my way to the boiling fires of hell, I will spin in my grave as fast as a revolving door at an Airbus board meeting. And I will haunt him. None of that amateur sheet over your head crap. Nope. We’re talking real professional hauntress, maggots in eye sockets, vampires in vitals, scaring you so shitless that sleep will be but a dream forever more.

Woooh! Woahwoooh! Wooooeeeeeewwwwwoooooh! Yeah…I’d be that scary… Cackle, cackle...

He went pale. Ghostly, even.

If I am going to be worm-food, I want a stylish send off. Not a bargain basement, cheapo tacky do. I want a Harvey Nicks funeral, not an ALDI price-reduced, damaged goods, out of code, end of line affair.

Spouse isn’t convinced. ‘Why are you so bothered? It’s not like you’ll be able to enjoy a fancy funeral. And it will just push Sprog and I further into penury.’

He throws the car around a corner and we screech to an abrupt halt as a ninety year old suicidal maniac steps into the traffic.

‘I bet that old git’s not as fussy as you.’ Spouse gesticulates at the old man as he squints through the windscreen at us – unsure whether to continue. To make his mind up, Spouse, who’s in a thoroughly bad mood by now, punches the horn with the heel of his hand.

‘If you don’t calm down, we’ll find out bloody quickly about this guy’s funeral arrangements,’ I screech, calmly. Sort of.

The codger suddenly finds an impressive (and frankly, suspicious) stab of accelleration, and makes it safely to the pavement on the other side, just avoiding the pantechnicon bearing down on him from the opposite direction. The words time and borrowed flash through my mind. And mothballs, weirdly.

‘You’re not going to die, alright? Not yet, anyway. Unless, you keep banging on about it – and then I might just have to kill you myself.’ Spouse is cross.

I remain silent. Trying to look hurt. But he’s driving, so he can’t look at me. Bugger.

‘If you kill me, there won’t be a funeral, though, will there?’

‘Oh, you’re right. There’ll be a massive celebration.’ He starts to hum Kool and the Gang.

‘No…I mean…you’ll dispose of me…by other means…in secret...’ I am solemn. Deadly serious. Grave.

He pulls over into a petrol station, involuntarily wincing at the 1.49 cents they are asking per litre.

‘Oh yeah…I see what you mean…’ He thinks about it for a moment, and then smiles indulgently.’Which would you prefer? Being chopped into pieces and discreetly posted into the fosse septique? Or...we go with the fried chicken outfit, assume I get a pussy-whipped judge and a shortish prison sentence, and pray that no one comes to the cheesiest funeral in history. Which they probably won’t…with you being such an annoying cow.’ And with that, he gets out of the car and violates it with his nozzle.

Charming.


In sleepy rural France, when mort strikes, certain things happen.....

Usually, the first thing you know about someone having taken a kick at the old pail, is a completely bonkers cacophony of bells tolling - from the direction of the church.They are totally without sequence, rhythm or…sanity. I imagine the person hanging on the end of the rope is either beside themselves with grief and just cannot hold it together. Or, they’re exploding with happiness at the recent departure of Monsieur X, and can’t help leaping up and down, swinging Tarzanically joyful through the din. Let’s just say, it sounds as if they’re not really: a. in control of their bells, or b. concentrating.

Now, if you happen to miss the bells, the next sign that something is afoot, is the appearance of The Condolence Book. It is usually parked outside the front door of the house of the deceased, on a velvet swagged lectern. Not to be mistaken for a knitting pattern book or Index/Argos (do they still exist?) catalogue. To avoid causing offence, only comment if you actually knew the person who has snuffed it. I know this now.

And if you are still completely unaware of a fellow villager’s demise, you surely won’t be able to miss the scruffy gathering of folk standing behind a metallic grey Renault Traffic, sliding out a large wooden box. The cask will take its place in a spacious, family mausoleum in the cemetery, which will be festooned with plastic lillies. A few weeks later an enamelled photograph of the deceased will appear on the tomb, so that you will be able to pass the time of day with them, when you go on your graveyard strolls.

Then it’s time for the will to be read. And that’s a whole other barrel of laughs…