Robert Fisk has an unanswerable funeral question (Image: Robert Fisk)
How many people will be at your funeral? It’s not a rhetorical question, nor is it a question you’ll be able to answer definitively, because when the time comes, you’ll be lying in an overpriced wooden box while mourners sing Jerusalem. I’ve only ever been to one funeral, and it was for a great man, so the town was effectively shut down for the funeral procession. Coaches had come from different parts of the country; it was standing room only in the church, and I was a blubbering mess throughout. Whereas for my funeral, I’ve always thought you’d be able to count the number of mourners on one hand. That’s the way I thought for at least 30 years, but something changed this week.
This week I’ve mostly been thinking that 10 people will turn up to my funeral in their Sunday best. Ten people will stand as someone reads out a eulogy about how I did my best to make people’s lives better and tried to get them through life with laughter. The thing that has changed my perspective and almost doubled the predicted mourners is a week of lunches.
I’m used to my days being filled with medical appointments where the people only talk and interact with me because they are paid to.
But last week was a rare week with no hospital appointments, for my incurable bowel cancer, so I could effectively be a lady of leisure, albeit in man form.
On the Monday I met up with a friend and his wife who I hadn’t seen for at least 18 years. We met at the university where we trained to write pieces like this, but I hadn’t seen him since his stag do. This time we did the sights of London, and I met their two children and it was glorious.
On the Tuesday I learned the Pizza Express vegetarian menu wasn’t as good as two former work colleagues were expecting. I was late, but it eventually didn’t matter, and I had a super time.
In the style of Craig David, I chilled on Wednesday, and considered having a sandwich at home. It was that good I can’t remember having one.
On the Thursday I was back in London for lunch with two work colleagues. It was definitely the fanciest place of the week, so I made sure I wore a collared shirt to avoid embarrassing them too much.
And on the Saturday, I went on a road trip to a burger place called Beefy Boys, in Shrewsbury, with a friend I’ve known for a long, long time, and his daughter. As is tradition, I took the over-customisation of my meal a bit too far and the mushroom wasn’t necessary. But we live and learn by mistakes.
Out of all these people, I will state that only one will definitely come to my funeral. But I’m sticking with my list of 10 mourners, not six, because everyone at each lunch wanted to be there and was happy to see me.
In a world where it’s all too easy to think that people are nice to me because I have cancer, it’s great to realise that people who liked me before my diagnosis still like me for who I am and not just talking to me because of the cells killing me inside.
We talked about my cancer a bit during all the occasions, especially because it seems like it’s winning at the moment. But it was only a minor topic of conversation because everything else in life is so much more interesting.
The friend I hadn’t seen for 18 years said we shouldn’t leave it so long next time. I can confidently say we can’t leave it so long because I’ll be dead by then. By 2044, my funeral will have been and gone, and I’ll be rotting in the ground, while I’ll exist only in memories and the Daily Express’s archive.
