Charles Cowling
The last time I directed you to the Hearth of Mopsus blog you were mostly pretty beastly about the writer, a clerk in holy orders who has the cure of souls in Swanvale Halt. Here’s what you said. He’s actually a bit of a sweetie, and if you like reading
Charles Cowling
The Dead The dead are always looking down on us, they say, while we are putting on our shoes or making a sandwich, they are looking down through the glass-bottom boats of heaven as they row themselves slowly through eternity. They watch the tops of our heads moving below on
Charles Cowling
I am just a pilgrim on this road, boys This ain’t never been my home Sometimes the road was rocky ‘long the way, boys But I was never travelin’ alone We’ll meet again on some bright highway Songs to sing and tales to tell But I am just a pilgrim
Charles Cowling
KEYZER, Jacques (Jack) C.L. October 15, 1926 – January 27, 2011. It is with the deepest regret and extreme sadness that we announce the passing of Jack Keyzer, beloved husband to Kay, grand-father, father and dear friend. Born and raised in Brussels, Belgium, Jack and his family emmigrated to South
Charles Cowling
There’s the usual row going on in a cemetery (Colchester, actually) about who can dangle what from where, if anywhere, and what is decorous and what is simply grieving trash strewn by frightful common people mad with grief and commonness. Yes, the great memorialisation debate will run and run. I
Charles Cowling
In recent months there’s been quite a bit of interest in Britain’s bentest undertaker, Richard Sage. A glance at the search terms people use to find my website tell me that, since June ’10, 330 have been hunting ‘Richard Sage’ and another 110 ‘Richard Sage Funeral Director’. That makes him almost as popular as
Charles Cowling
I hope I am acknowledged to be a generous source of great business ideas. From time to time I come up with a corker and then, in a spirit either of magnanimity or downright sloth, offer it gratis to loyal readers of this blog. The idea pictured above is just
Charles Cowling
There are two ways of looking at it – aren’t there always? Either funerals, by loosening up, jettisoning the f-word and calling themselves celebrations of life, are becoming more meaningful, more expressive of what people want to express; or they have become merely conventions of gaudily-clad denialists engaged in an