Talking about death...

There has been much talk of death in my house recently, and it's all rather depressing. "We're not immortal, you know!" Busy, mum, I'm watching Jeremy Clarkson slag off production cars that work perfectly well, whilst in his next breath praising Alfa Romeos, notorious for breaking down, on a channel amusingly named "Dave ja vu." "Do you think there's life after death?" Please, someone pour me a drink. And incidentally, I've been a staunch atheist since I was seven, so that's a no. If your next question is "will you be voting Tory in the next election?" I'm either going to be very offended or start questioning just how much attention to my formative years you were paying.

"Did you ever worry about what would happen if we weren't around any more?" Uh, no. I was too busy worrying about the DG gagging the world's biggest news organisation from discussing the personal of Peter Mandelson because he was, um, "a friend."

It's all very macabre.

And rather worrying. Should I have written a will? Should I be making plans for a funeral? This worries me. So in order to put my mind at rest:

Cremate me. I do rather like Keith Richards' idea of snorting ashes, but I'm not that fussed. I would mind being smoked. Or if that doesn't take your fancy, scattered by the lake and the Roman Ruins.
When you cremate me, do it on a funeral pyre a la the Master in Doctor Who. It's technically illegal, but it's not going to be me that gets arrested, so have at it.
On the pyre, I want my duvet. If I don't get it, I shall suspend my disbelief in life after death and come and haunt you. And I want to be wearing my oldest, rattiest (and most favourite) jeans and my Cubs jumper.
There shall be no ceremony, because they're pointless. And about your grief rather than my life, so don't do that.
But have a Wake. Tequila shots for all.
I want a plaque. Soothe my ego. Put it by Holloway's pond. If you could do it at night please, then one of you accidentally fall in because the lighting is non-existent so you won't see the edge.
My George Bush poster goes to Dean and any leftover alcohol can be split between Laura, Vinous and Anna.

Right, well, with my mind soothed and put at ease, I can now walk into roads without looking both ways. Excellent.