Aidan John Moffat ( 10 Apr. 1973- Falkirk, Scotland)
The bar's busier than it should be on a weekday afternoon as the door swings shut behind me, but I'm the only one wearing a suit. No-one seems to notice my entrance though, I suppose they must be used to mourners in the nearest pub to the crematorium. I don't think I could've coped with the wake, I had to make ...a quick exit to be alone with my memories, I was sick of hearing everyone else's. I buy a pint and sit down.
"See, the trouble with you is that you're top heavy", said the tailor as he measured me up. They don't get asked much for three-piece suits these days, so my choice was limited. I went for all-purpose black, or 'charcoal grey' as he called it. Looks black to me. This is the second time I've worn it, the first was a wedding and there's a christening next week so I might as well get my money's worth. Birth, love and death: the only reasons to get dressed up. I loosen my tie.
Halfway through my pint and a text message from John says he's waiting outside, sooner than I'd expected. I down what's left and step out into the bright afternoon and get in the car. I look up and see the pub's once brilliant copper roof has oxidized over the years and it's now a dull, pastel green. Everything's getting older.
.. It’s “ the funeral you’ve worked your whole life for.”