Doug the celebrant

It's been a hectic couple of weeks.  Funerals work is now starting to come in and the weekend before last I did a course on baby naming.

I've done three funerals in the last two weeks and have another one booked for next week, including my dad that means I've done six so far.  It's hard and stressful work, but also very rewarding and I've had wonderful feedback so far.  There are some frustrations however.  My fellow celebrants are a very mixed bunch, some are really great and some are in it because they like the sound of their own voice and/or to allow their prejudices to have a free rein.

I am definitely a humanist, but I'm becoming clearer and clearer that I don't especially want to conduct "humanist" funerals, I would rather conduct a funeral as a humanist, which for me is quite a different thing.  Lots of my colleagues have a hatred, even a fear, of any religious references within a service, thus creating a kind of "humanist space", which to me is like a humanist church.  But to my mind humanism doesn't need to mimic churches in this way and doesn't need its own space.  I really don't mind if people want to say a prayer or sing a hymn within a service I'm conducting.  My concern is fundamentally to help people express their grief in a group setting, where they can feel safe and supported.  I don't want to associate myself with the act of worshipping or praying, but that doesn't require me to stop others from doing so.

I've now worked with three funeral directors (or FDs as they are known in the trade).  I don't like the way the industry works, because I think undue pressure is placed on people to buy things they don't want, but nonetheless two of the three have been good to work with - small and traditional firms but with high standards of conduct.  Then today I came into contact with a medium sized outfit and was struck by the lack of respect the FD had for the mourners.  It's hard to pin down as he did nothing obviously disrespectful.  Also today an old, fat, stupid and patronising Chapel Attendant played the wrong music at the start of the service, causing a delay while the FD rushed backstage and told him. God I hate crematoria!

England and St George

Since the early 90s I've been going on an annual St George's Day bash organised by friends that I knew when I lived on boats in London.  These days I make it about one year in four and my relationship with the event is increasingly ambiguous.  It's great to meet up on old Thames barge and see Tower Bridge open for you.

I don't even mind the faux patriotism, as they're a mixed bunch from many walks of life and many of them have a pretty balanced view of what patriotism is and its relationship to nationalism.  Actually what I find difficult is the drinking and the fact that since I first started going my life has changed quite radically, whereas most people's hasn't.

 I think many of them see me as a much more serious person these days, possibly dangerously thin with an unmentionable disease.  The fact is I can't bear getting sick with booze anymore and I have less need to say things in this group setting.  I no longer have a desire to entertain or impress.

It was good to take a long look at the flats I was brought up in as a child though and interesting to see the spot where we scattered dad's ashes just a few weeks ago.

Every time I go back for one of these events I tell myself "never again".  But four years from now ... who knows?

On My Bike

I bought myself a new gps watch last week.  I find the act of going out running or cycling and recording a track which I can then upload and look at on a map strangely magical.  I started doing this when Sue and I were in Borneo, where there were so few maps or signs that it was actually a good way of getting a picture of where I really had been.

I've got a busyish day today so I decided to get a bike ride in this morning.  It was cold and bright as I cycled around the flat surrounding countryside, past bright yellow fields of oilseed rape and along dykes.  At one point a young deer broke cover and bounded along in a field next to me.  Eventually I cycled into the middle of Lincoln down the Foss Dyke and into the Brayford Pool before returning to dad's bungalow.

I guess I should stop calling it that, I suppose it's my bungalow now, though it doesn't feel like it.  I feel I'm camping here while I finalise dad's affairs, which is nearly done now.  All the bequests have been paid and I've written to the bank asking them to close his accounts.  The strangest parts of this process made me sad, quite unexpectedly.  Like surrendering his old premium bond certificates to National Savings.  They'd been bought over the years at different stages in his life and many of the documents had his signature.  I guess buying premium bonds is a hopeful act and by surrendering them it's a kind of recognition that in the end all those dreams and aspirations come to nothing.