I had a call last night from Rev. Holy from St Luke's. He was taken a little aback when I said it was my funeral I was trying to organize. Clearly he doesn't get many calls like this. I said I needed to know whether I come within his catchment area. "How on earth do I find out?" I asked. "You ask me" he said. Pen at the ready, I told him my address and I wrote down the limits. Nightingale Lane on one side through to Bolingbroke Grove on the other. I was nowhere near. I realized with a pang of real disappointment that if I went down this route, I'd be allocated to the church up the road with which I feel no link, no connection at all. I don't want any religious ceremony. I only want it if it's St Luke's.
Rev. Holy could hear me going off the idea. "All that means "he said "is that's what's legally enforceable. People who live in our catchment are entitled to a funeral here. The church is the established church so that's the law. But for those outside the catchment, it's down to the discretion of the minister."
He then went on to explain that, as with schools, if you've got a church that's particularly desirable and you have endless people competing to use it, you may have to put in some conditions. I held my breath, wondering where I stood. "If you want to have your funeral here" he went on, "we'd say fantastic!"
"Fantastic," Rev Holy says he'd say"fantastic" to having my funeral at St Luke's! I am so chuffed. I feel like I have won a prize, joined the in-crowd, secured a bit of my future, resolved a part of the big problem.
I tell my mum. "Did you ask him about me?" she asks. I admit I was completely selfish and didn't mention her even though she's likely to be ahead of me in the queue. "I can't think there'd be a problem" I reply in a rather superior in-the-know way.
Wednesday, 28 February 2007
Tuesday, 27 February 2007
Location, location, location
Today I thought I should consider funeral and burial locations and realized I know very little about what is and what isn’t possible. A friend is just in the process of organizing a funeral for her mum and decided it would feel right to have it at the church where her parents were married over half a century ago. They no longer live in the area. She found the details of the church online and sent an email. A reply told her that she had made a convincing argument for her case and everything was arranged. The interesting point is that a case had to be made. There is no automatic right to have a funeral in a church of your choice or indeed to be buried in the graveyard of your choice.
I contacted the Church of England press office and asked what the considerations were. Many churchyards are now closed for burials because they are full up (they do of course still hold funerals) but those that are open will take you if you are a member of the church or if you live in the parish. Apparently every street in the country is part of one parish or another so it is post-code lottery as to where you get.
If you want to be buried in a cathedral it is a different matter. There are not many interments within the buildings. Some like
I think mum and I are unlikely to get dispensation to be buried at a cathedral or indeed at a bucolic country church of our choosing (although I can think of several I might like.) I decided to be more realistic and to investigate St Luke’s Church in Battersea. I’m not a church goer but I do visit this church on a pretty regular basis because it is associated with my children’s school. We go there for Spring concerts and Christmas carols and it is a place therefore with good associations. I drink mulled wine here with other parents and tears of pride come into my eyes when my children stand at the alter to read dodgy poems they've written or play in the junior school orchestra. It’s also a rather beautiful red brick in a high Victorian building with a basilica lined with shining mosaics. Signs hang in the pews reminding one of the virtues: perseverance, humility and so on. I can imagine having my funeral here, close to home in a place which has formed part of the geography of my life. But there is no graveyard! So whatever, there will be no one-stop shopping here. And I haven’t yet established whether my home is within the parish boundary. Goodness, it feels as difficult as trying to get a place at a local school!
Monday, 26 February 2007
The Skeletons of Spitalfields
We're still no closer to knowing whether we want to be buried or cremated. Either choice is loaded with complications. It seems that cremation is not necessarily the green option. In the heat of the furnace, toxic emissions are given off including 16% of the UKs mercury emissions. That is of course from our fillings. To be buried conventionally uses up valuable land space for rotting corpses. I'm not sure there are any green burial sites near where I live in South London. That's all to be researched.
Meanwhile, reading Necropolis (Catherine Arnold) reminded me of a film I made, oh, probably 20 years ago. It was for the series Chronicle and it was about a remarkable excavation carried out in the crypt of Hawksmoor's Christ Church Spitalfields in East London. Archaeologists found 1000 skeletons which all dated from the end of the 18th and the beginning of the 19th centuries. What was extraordinary about the research was that all the coffins were clearly labeled and the corpses names and dates from their coffins and their tomb stones could be matched with parish records. Thus whole biographies could be constructed of people who had died 2 centuries before. One of these was Louisa Courtauld who died in 1807. As she was a part of the famous fabric family there is a portrait of her in life. In front of me I have a picture of her skull and a photo of her portrait. It is a remarkable juxtaposition.
There was fear, when the coffins were opened, that cholera or the plague might still be contained within. In fact the worst the researchers had to face was the disgusting smell emanating from the corpses. Some of the corpses were in an amazing state of preservation, with leathery skin still on their faces and fabulous bonnets and dazzling golden fabric draped around their bodies.
Any research that disturbs corpses has to be undertaken with real sensitivity. Christ Church was dilapidated and unsafe and the crypt needed to be emptied for repair and reconstruction work so the coffins needed shifting whatever. I went to meet Louisa's descendant who seemed happy that the work was contributing to knowledge about funeral practices. And proud of his portrait of his great, great, great (I think!) grandmother!
Of course graves do get moved on a pretty regular basis. I remember when my grandmother came on a visit to England from Australia where she lived. Her daughter Kathleen had dies of diptheria as a child and she went to visit the grave. It wasn't there. It had long since been turned over to make room for the next inhabitant and the one after that. Unless you have a mausoleum of your own on private land, your resting place in death is for a limited time only.
Meanwhile, reading Necropolis (Catherine Arnold) reminded me of a film I made, oh, probably 20 years ago. It was for the series Chronicle and it was about a remarkable excavation carried out in the crypt of Hawksmoor's Christ Church Spitalfields in East London. Archaeologists found 1000 skeletons which all dated from the end of the 18th and the beginning of the 19th centuries. What was extraordinary about the research was that all the coffins were clearly labeled and the corpses names and dates from their coffins and their tomb stones could be matched with parish records. Thus whole biographies could be constructed of people who had died 2 centuries before. One of these was Louisa Courtauld who died in 1807. As she was a part of the famous fabric family there is a portrait of her in life. In front of me I have a picture of her skull and a photo of her portrait. It is a remarkable juxtaposition.
There was fear, when the coffins were opened, that cholera or the plague might still be contained within. In fact the worst the researchers had to face was the disgusting smell emanating from the corpses. Some of the corpses were in an amazing state of preservation, with leathery skin still on their faces and fabulous bonnets and dazzling golden fabric draped around their bodies.
Any research that disturbs corpses has to be undertaken with real sensitivity. Christ Church was dilapidated and unsafe and the crypt needed to be emptied for repair and reconstruction work so the coffins needed shifting whatever. I went to meet Louisa's descendant who seemed happy that the work was contributing to knowledge about funeral practices. And proud of his portrait of his great, great, great (I think!) grandmother!
Of course graves do get moved on a pretty regular basis. I remember when my grandmother came on a visit to England from Australia where she lived. Her daughter Kathleen had dies of diptheria as a child and she went to visit the grave. It wasn't there. It had long since been turned over to make room for the next inhabitant and the one after that. Unless you have a mausoleum of your own on private land, your resting place in death is for a limited time only.
Sunday, 25 February 2007
Necropolis
I've been reading Necropolis: London and its dead by Catherine Arnold (published by Pocket Books at £7.99.) It is a fascinating ghoulish romp through the graveyards of London from Roman times through to the death of Diana. It demonstrates strongly how the look of London has been influenced by the manner in which we have treated the dead and the battles that have waged over land use. The ever-growing population has constantly overwhelmed the inner city capacity and planners have always under-estimated the number of dead. Gradually the dead have been buried further and further out of town thus constantly re-shaping our geography.
Arnold is at her strongest dealing with 2 periods: the plague and Victorian death. Of the 1600s she gives graphic descriptions of stinking corpses and dreadfully overcrowded graveyards. She tells us fascinating nuggets of information: At the spot where Brompton Road and Knightsbridge now meet, excavations for the Piccadilly Line between Knightsbridge and South Kensington Underground Stations unearthed a pit so dense with human remains that it could not be tunnelled through. This is said to account for the curving nature of the track between the two stations.
She also gives excellent accounts of Victorian reformers like Chadwick and the pageantry of funerals such as that of the Duke of Wellington, organized by Prince Albert himself. There are lots of curious anecdotes throughout, from the scandal of Enon Chapel just off the Strand where 12,000 bodies had been buried in a space measuring 59 feet by 12, at 15 shillings a time to the fascinating story behind the burial of the unknown soldier after WW1. It is a cornucopia of macabre delight.
It is possibly weaker about the story of the rise of cremation. It charts the beginning of the story but doesn't then go on to study its impact in the last century and the thinking behind the choices people made, and indeed the massive success of cremation in the UK. These choices also have an impact on the geography of London. However Arnold doesn't set out to look at the landscape of death today. Her story rattles through the wars and the flu epidemic and skids to a halt with Diana and the national outpouring of grief. But the debate today about how to accommodate our dead in dwindling space that is competing with housing for the living has clear echoes in the history she relates. It's no new crisis. It's just one that we perennially face up to too late.
Arnold is at her strongest dealing with 2 periods: the plague and Victorian death. Of the 1600s she gives graphic descriptions of stinking corpses and dreadfully overcrowded graveyards. She tells us fascinating nuggets of information: At the spot where Brompton Road and Knightsbridge now meet, excavations for the Piccadilly Line between Knightsbridge and South Kensington Underground Stations unearthed a pit so dense with human remains that it could not be tunnelled through. This is said to account for the curving nature of the track between the two stations.
She also gives excellent accounts of Victorian reformers like Chadwick and the pageantry of funerals such as that of the Duke of Wellington, organized by Prince Albert himself. There are lots of curious anecdotes throughout, from the scandal of Enon Chapel just off the Strand where 12,000 bodies had been buried in a space measuring 59 feet by 12, at 15 shillings a time to the fascinating story behind the burial of the unknown soldier after WW1. It is a cornucopia of macabre delight.
It is possibly weaker about the story of the rise of cremation. It charts the beginning of the story but doesn't then go on to study its impact in the last century and the thinking behind the choices people made, and indeed the massive success of cremation in the UK. These choices also have an impact on the geography of London. However Arnold doesn't set out to look at the landscape of death today. Her story rattles through the wars and the flu epidemic and skids to a halt with Diana and the national outpouring of grief. But the debate today about how to accommodate our dead in dwindling space that is competing with housing for the living has clear echoes in the history she relates. It's no new crisis. It's just one that we perennially face up to too late.
Wednesday, 21 February 2007
Going out with a bang
Phillip Pullman had to work quite hard to achieve the firework display that he wanted for his stepfather and he succeeded thanks to a favour from a friend. After I received Phillip's account,I rang around a number of fireworks companies and couldn't find anyone that would agree to do it. But today, there is a UK company which does nothing but funeral ashes as fireworks so if Phillip does choose to do it for himself, he will probably find it easier to arrange. The company is Heaven Above Fireworks (www.heavensabovefireworks.com) and Fergus Jamieson set it up after hearing an item on John Peel's Home Front on Radio 4. He heard a contributor saying how much they would like to be turned into a firework and he thought, why not? Thus was born a business opportunity.
I asked Fergus why he thought fireworks were a good idea for ashes. "It's important to grieve" he says, "but it's important to look back and to celebrate all the wonderful things in people's lives. No one leaves a firework display without a smile on their face."
Interestingly, Fergus says that over a half of the calls he receives are from people planning their own funeral. I guess if you don't tell people what you want, people naturally go back to default mode and give you a traditional send off, so if you want something different, you need to plan it yourself.
But now the shopping begins. Costs start at about £900. The only thing you can't do is go up in a single rocket...that's too risky. You can choose what size and style of display you would prefer. You can have a green and white display if you're Irish or a red, white and blue one if you're a Brit. Some people want a small display that they can set off themselves in the back garden. Some want a giant display with all bells ringing. You can choose between a mixed display, perhaps even with your name written in lights. Or you can choose a noisy, rocket based one so that you really go out with a bang.
This time, my mum is really enthusiastic. "Do it anywhere you like, anywhere that suits you." She like the idea that everyone would have to smile. They could chomp on their baked potatoes and knock back their wine and lift their heads up to the night sky and wave goodbye.
I asked Fergus why he thought fireworks were a good idea for ashes. "It's important to grieve" he says, "but it's important to look back and to celebrate all the wonderful things in people's lives. No one leaves a firework display without a smile on their face."
Interestingly, Fergus says that over a half of the calls he receives are from people planning their own funeral. I guess if you don't tell people what you want, people naturally go back to default mode and give you a traditional send off, so if you want something different, you need to plan it yourself.
But now the shopping begins. Costs start at about £900. The only thing you can't do is go up in a single rocket...that's too risky. You can choose what size and style of display you would prefer. You can have a green and white display if you're Irish or a red, white and blue one if you're a Brit. Some people want a small display that they can set off themselves in the back garden. Some want a giant display with all bells ringing. You can choose between a mixed display, perhaps even with your name written in lights. Or you can choose a noisy, rocket based one so that you really go out with a bang.
This time, my mum is really enthusiastic. "Do it anywhere you like, anywhere that suits you." She like the idea that everyone would have to smile. They could chomp on their baked potatoes and knock back their wine and lift their heads up to the night sky and wave goodbye.
A blaze of fireworks
I have been fascinated with the idea of going off as a firework for a while now. A couple of years ago I read somewhere that children's author Philip Pullman had rocketed his stepfather up to the stars in a firework display. Could it be the case, or was it part of his fiction? I wrote him a note and this was his reply.
So I suggested that we regard the actual service as a formality, and set up a real farewell later in the year, when everyone could get there without difficulty. Then the question arose: what form should the farewell take? Obviously we’d have to scatter the ashes, but there wasn’t really anywhere in Edinburgh, where he spent the last couple of years of his life, that was special to him; there was no reason to go to sea and scatter them there; but we felt we ought to do something special.
“Let’s send him up in a rocket,” I said, half-seriously.
But my sister jumped at it, and so did the others. My stepbrother, when I suggested it to him over the phone, roared with laughter. It was such a zany idea that we couldn’t resist it. I only wish we’d thought of it before he died – he would have loved it.
So then the problem became – one rocket? Two? How many would we need? And should we do it ourselves? I had visions of buying a couple of big rockets from Woolworth’s or somewhere, and spooning the old boy in, and sealing him up with duct tape. But then they might be too heavy and make it un-aerodynamic, or something, and he might whizz up and turn round and come straight down again.
Anyway, my sister, who knows everyone, found a firework specialist in
So on the appointed day we all gathered in Edinburgh and had a boozy supper and drove out to the headland where the firework man did his displays, looking south across the Firth of Forth. As the daylight was fading we walked a mile or so along the shore till we came to the spot where the rockets were being set up, all along a big long rack, with the firework man just setting the fuses. It had been raining all day, but it was just clearing, although the clouds were still low. We could see the lights of
What a display! It was wonderful. Each rocket was bigger and more beautiful than the one before. It went on for minutes, and the sky was full of stars, and with each star there was a bit of the old man.
And my little niece, who was nine, looked up and said very decidedly “That’s the way I want to go.”
As a matter of fact, I wouldn’t mind going like that myself. The thing was, it was funny and happy and beautiful as well as being sad. So I think it’s rockets for me too when the time comes.
I hope that helps.
Yours, Philip Pullman
Family and funeral fantasies
My mum was very taken with the notion of going up to space and going out with a bang. But there was dissent when we discussed the issue at dinner. My sister Becky didn't like it. It was far too off the wall for her. She likes a bit of tradition and feels that funerals are the time like no other for employing tradition. She would like a Rolls Royce for a hearse with a tasteful floral display on top. No horses, and no flowers spelling 'sister' or 'auntie'. She wants the weeping children to carry her coffin on their shoulders. She doesn't want a church service, having rarely stepped inside one. "But I don't want one of those crematoria that looks like a 1960s prefab" she adds. She wants to be buried in a picturesque graveyard, and she's got her eye on one in Wandsworth. I know the one she means (on Bolingbroke Road) and I feel sure it's bound to be full. I know I need to explore how you do get to be buried where you want and how to find a crematorium you like.
My mum reckons Becky's fantasy burial has cost tens of thousands of pounds already and says she hopes she's leaving the money to cover it. Then it's back to the rockets. My son Nicholas says it would be no fun (unless you went to see the launch) because nothing would happen. He wants fireworks. That's next up.
My mum reckons Becky's fantasy burial has cost tens of thousands of pounds already and says she hopes she's leaving the money to cover it. Then it's back to the rockets. My son Nicholas says it would be no fun (unless you went to see the launch) because nothing would happen. He wants fireworks. That's next up.
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