I was coming to the end of Morning Prayer after breakfast when the car arrived at ten to ten, to take me to Thornhill Crem this morning for my second funeral of this week, a 68 year old spinster. There were ten of us in the smaller Briwnant chapel. The brother who was next of kin asked me to choose some music which I willingly did. Then, last night his daughter rang me, anxiously asking if any music had been chosen as he'd forgotten he'd asked me. I reassured her it was taken care of and she seemed pleased about the selection I'd made.
When I arrived, the chapel attendant wasn't there. I checked the schedule sheet on his work station in the cramped side room next to the lobby where the officiating minister can also change and leave a coat. There was no mention of my music choice. I panicked a bit and asked the funeral director if he could find the attendant and sort something out asap. When he arrived, he turned over another sheet of paper, on which was written my special requests. They had been emailed through after all, by my email to the funeral director had not been acknowledged by the office staff. I must give them a gentle reminder about this, to save panicking the guy in charge of the funeral and the minister! Thankfully my choice of music was deemed appropriate and acceptable.
Clare was out for the morning, so I cooked us both lunch, followed by a clinic visit, then a siesta and a walk around Pontcanna Fields before supper. There was a noisy floodlit cricket match on at the SWALEC stadium. Clare returned from choir rehearsal to a late supper and we listened to the Archers on BBC iPlayer, both of us having missed it as we were both out. The choir gives a concert at Insole Court this coming Saturday evening. I should be singing with them, but just don't have that special energy to discipline myself for singing at the moment. That's the draining effect of living with a still open wound. And still no word of an appointment to come. Another case of déjá vu, I'm afraid.
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