Death Where Is Thy Sting

Firmly ensconced in the bottom of the bumble bee of life, if my morning is anything to go by.

 I don’t know what you think about when you wake up, but this morning, as I came to, I was thinking about a curiously disembodied heart. It took a couple of minutes for me to realise that this was Dissection Day and that I had completely failed to provide Younger Son with the requisite organ to take to school. That he’s reminded me only the night before didn’t dissipate the Mummy Guilt  and I headed down to breakfast in a less than sunny mood. No shimmering Jeeves to cheer me up so I sat down to Weetabix with The Lodger.  We watched breakfast news where we learnt that people now get their funerals photographed and videoed in much the same way as weddings and christenings.  Can’t shout at the TV when The Lodger is around so made mild comments and found that even a 23 year old thought it was a bit off to take snaps of weeping mourners.

Arrived at the most expensive butchers in town (it was open) with Younger Son, to be greeted with    “ Morning madam – pizza?” This has to rank as the oddest thing a butcher has ever said to me. He had obviously had loads of distressed parents in. “They’re frozen” he continued “is that ok?” I nodded and he vanished, coming back with a very hard heart indeed.  Back in the car, Younger Son said that he had to take the heart to the Prep Room where there were ladies who would deal with it. Some poor technician is facing a morning of dealing with 33 hearts (yes this is a state school) in various states of defrostation.

Facing a silence in the car I ventured to Younger Son that he had a very cold heart.  Suprisingly he laughed. We carried on chatting and I mentioned the old story of the woman who killed her husband with a frozen leg of lamb and then served it to the detectives investigating the case. “Have you ever thought of doing that Mum?”  he asked.

“Of course not darling……..”