AT the time of going to press, I have not yet passed away (readers groan in disappointment). Nor have I any plans to do such a thing in the near, or any other, future.
I mention all this on the assumption that you all know what “passing away” means. It sounds quite harmless, almost pleasant, something you might do every day if you could get away with it. Alas, it refers to the big last step, the final shutting of the door, the booting of a cylindrical open container. That is to say, it refers to death.
This week, terminal illness charity Marie Curie, making the point that we should prepare and talk more frankly about the end of life, listed 50 euphemisms for death. These included a fair few oddities such as: wearing a wooden onesie; becoming one with the Force; and vacating one’s “earthly meat prison”, which sounds unpalatably culinary.
“Passed away” was the most prevalent expression, and one I use myself. The whole point, I guess, is to be less harsh or blunt about a harsh and blunt business.
Marie Curie says the euphemisms hint at our reluctance to face death, a reluctance which leads to us being unprepared or distressed when it’s our turn to be confronted ourselves with the trapdoor to oblivion/hell/heaven (please indicate preference).
But they don’t mind too much, as long as we talk about it. However, I’m not sure how you’re supposed to go about that. I have tried it down the shops, and it just led to my being banned. Didn’t even get my Nectar points.
You can try bringing it up at social occasions like weddings or birthday parties, but you’ll find you have few takers and could even get a piece of cake shoved in your face with some force.
I don’t suppose Marie Curie means it like that. But when or where else? Bit late with someone who’s terminally ill, though I think it would still help and might be the most important, and even welcome, discussion they have. It’s better than such poor souls trying to work it all out for themselves, though I’m not sure atheist friends would provide much succour: “Face it, you’ll just be pushing up the daisies, man. There’s nothing. Well, toodle-oo the noo.”
The other problem with talking about death, at least as a likely occurrence in the future, is that planning for it is hardly living in the moment, or being mindful, as the official state religion enjoins us to do these days.
But I get Marie Curie’s drift. The subject should somehow be around the ether of our culture, something discussed more in books or, in a worst case scenario, newspaper columns. I’ve heard tell of death cafes, where punters are enjoined to socialise with other brave souls willing to broach the subject and discuss the ins and outs, or at least the latter, over a cup of coffee and some death by chocolate or perchance a flies' cemetery.
As someone who, after considerable thought, disapproves of death, I believe there should be more research into putting an end to it for good. A couple of years ago, there was a vogue for immortality, with some scientific folk with long beards saying genetic developments could cure us of this fatal condition. But that seems to have died a death.
No, I think we’re just going to have to face the fact that death is a real possibility. Other than that, I don’t know what else there is to say. That’s the trouble with death. It always gets the last word.
Shorts shrift
A SPIRITED discussion on Twitter excoriated those men who insist on wearing shorts on freezing cold days. Not one contributor spoke in their favour, excusing only postmen hurrying on their rounds with the time-and-motion whip on their backs.
It is of course vanity, all vanity. Only those who consider their legs shapely indulge in such exhibitionism, hoping either to attract a mate with their display or at least going up the pecking order in the tribe. Thus mankind in the 21st century.
A minority among these are also showing off tattoos, as there’s little point in having one of these if others cannot see them, though I’ve sometimes thought of having a small tattoo in a private place that would mean something only to me.
Unfortunately, even with the passing decades revealing what has stood the test of time (i.e. no hammer and sickles or anarchy symbols), I couldn’t think of anything that means anything to me. As for the private place, I was thinking of above the T-shirt sleeve.
I’ve heard of people who get tattoos on their bottoms, which seems to be foolish as neither you nor the man in the street can see and admire them.
Duck, it's a cyclist!
A QUICK look through any thesaurus under “exhibitionist” reveals the word “cyclist”, and it’s no surprise that these are predominant among the narcissistic, shorts-wearing classes.
This week, on YouTube, I discovered a deleted scene from The Office featuring self-important fantasist Gareth arriving at work in testicle-hugging cyclist’s Lycra, with his colleagues unable to restrain their laughter.
You’ll have seen similar specimens mincing through supermarkets or malls, obviously thinking that they look heroic.
A new addition to cyclists’ calumnies emerged this week with the revelation that Natural England had ordered the destruction of hundreds of duck eggs at a Bedford country park because the ducks were causing a “safety concern” for cyclists breenging through the joint.
You’d think a nature watchdog body would be more concerned about the ducks. But, no, that’s cyclists for you: causing danger to pedestrians, ramblers, motorists, old people ... and now ducks. Where I live, they have started appearing on 60mph rural roads (cyclists that is, not ducks – maybe our feathered chums have more sense than to play in traffic), with drivers suddenly encountering them on bends, forcing the motorist on to the other side of the road where hell mend everybody involved if there’s a vehicle coming the other way.
In fact, maybe the shorts aren't so bad after all.
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