Charles Cowling
I’ll never make a funeral director. Yesterday’s experience reinforced that. No presence of mind. No eye for detail. In any case, I like things to hang loose, come a little unravelled if they will. But the mourning public likes to be held in a reassuring grip, I was reminded. They
Charles Cowling
A right separate funeral bag crapper attain every the disagreement to a kinsfolk who has forfeited a idolized member … Funeral directors are also answerable for maintaining the equipment. Caskets, gravestones, tamps, vases, and box cloudy devices should ever be in beatific condition; otherwise, directors separate the venture of something
Charles Cowling
Charles Cowling
The wicked shall return to Hell (Psalm 9.18) — Benejou Rabinowicz (1905-89)
Charles Cowling
I wonder if you spent any time over at The Modern Mourner yesterday? If you didn’t, think again and have a gander. It is the creation of Shirley Tatum, a generous spirit who signposts her readers to all manner of more or less wonderful designers. Okay, there’s nothing quite so divisive
Charles Cowling
There’s interesting work going on over in Boston, Massachusetts. Two women, Ruth Faas and Sue Cross, offer a range of services to the bereaved. They have a reading room where people can sit in comfort and find out about death and dying. They offer advice and contacts to those wanting
Charles Cowling
Chirpiness and high-jinking are, I think we agree, out of place in a mourning scenario and/or environment. If you are freshly bereaved, that screamingly funny but in the circs totally unfunny ringtone on your phone is definitely going to jar if not shatter decorous, contemplative gloom. The same with undertakers.
Charles Cowling
An interesting thread here in a US forum about the custom of stopping to show respect for a hearse passing. I don’t suppose it’s a custom to be found anywhere in Britain any more. Pity. Any reminder that the bell tolls for every single one of us can’t be a
Charles Cowling
I enjoyed this piece by David Nobbs, creator of Reginald Perrin, in yesterday’s Observer. Here are some extracts. My mother died on 7 August 1995. I didn’t realise, that day, my life had changed … My mother died, as she had lived, unselfishly. After she’d died, my wife Susan and
Charles Cowling
When my friend PoshUndertaker first opened to the public, business was slow. When he went on holiday he’d ask me to mind the shop for him. I’d say yes like a shot, confident that nothing more would come in than a lot of importunate calls from people flogging stuff. There