Went to Swindon yesterday to sign up for an Alzheimer's study that Hay is keen for me to participate in for the efficacy of a new drug. If accepted, I have to have either a lumbar puncture or a PET scan, and I prefer dogs to having a reverse epidural. While waiting to see the study people I was leafing through a copy of Hello magazine - didn't recognise anyone of the myriad, inconsequential neo-narcissists, except Mr Potatohead (below) and his Mrs. I'm seriously out of touch with vacuous, contemporary gossip.
We noticed over the weekend that the funeral director on the High Street has closed down. Obviously there aren't enough people dying in Chipping Sodbury to make a living from it. The cost of funerals has always struck me as rather high, but that's hardly surprising when you consider the things they do to you before you're either burned or buried. Who the hell cares whether you're wearing a blue or purplee, silk shroud - no-one's going to see you anyway once the lid is nailed down. Bizarre.
I'm currently reading a biography of Edward I - Longshanks as the was known, due to his height. I've never really understood why he's called Edward I when Edward the Confessor was really Edward I. Some attribute it to the Normans not recognising the Anglo-Saxon dynasty, but William the Bastard's claim to the throne was predicated on a promise from Edward The Confessor, and repudiating the Confessor repudiates the argument - plus The Confessor was half Norman anyway. My preferred hypothesis is that The Confessor's Saxon name was Ēadƿeard, not Edward.
1 comment:
Something to do with the line, "gravestones cheer the living dear, they're no use to the dead."
...and the living have the money.
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