You couldnae even write it

Louise Dempsey Smith

The computer screen turns to black in the blink of an eye. No fade to grey, its just off.

Bummer.

Desperately Seeking Jamie has been floating through cyberspace, unanswered for almost a year now.

A sigh and a glance at the clock confirm that its time to don my funeral attire. This will be its third outing this year. If black wasnt such a flattering colour, I could be seriously depressed about the whole thing.

I blot my lipstick, do a twirl while peering at myself in the mirror and nod approvingly. Its a good look. Black suits my colouring, and hides the size of my hips. A moment of self reproach flickers through my conscience, but Uncle Andy wouldnt indulge such a negative emotion. Hed lived a life of hard knocks and had dealt with it with wit and high jinks. Naughtiness, in all of its guises would best describe his undeterring lust for life, and he would have laughed at my vanity.

At the crematorium, there are so many people accompanying Uncle Andy to his final resting place that many of the mourners have to stand outside. My brother and I stand together, huddled against the cold, but the laughter caused by the eulogy turns the cold, clear air warm with affection and blue with profanities. The laughter is continual and raucous and even the undertakers cant compose themselves for any length of time. It is more like a comedy routine than a eulogy, but Uncle Andys best friend has lived exactly what he is talking, side by side with his accomplice in crime. So while this eulogy might be more fitting for the Edinburgh Fringe than a crematorium, its just right for Uncle Andy.

What a man, eh? my Uncle Sandy chuckles, later, through a mouthful of sausage roll. Mair character than Mickey-*******-Mouse. The imagery of this is not lost on me, my siblings or my cousins and the table erupts into raucous laughter as we imagine a sexually active Disney character.

Uncle Andy would have liked that one.

So we have more drinks, and more laughs and then someone turns on the music, and I suddenly realise through my vodka induced haze that Ive missed my lift.

Jist stay, encourages Cousin Steven, Im just about to slip intae something more comfortable! he lifts his pint glass into the air, like a coma!

The table is rowdily banged as laughter erupts again, but when Ive stopped laughing, I quietly gather up my things, whisper goodbye to my mum and creep out into the cold night air. The experience of such a strange oxymoron has left me emotionally drained, and I want to go home. A funny funeral is a far better experience than a despairingly sad funeral, but nevertheless, this had been our final goodbye to Uncle Andy, and now I just feel sad. For the first time that day, a fat tear rolls down my cheek and drips off my chin.

As I walk to the station, I pull my coat closer around me to deter the cold wind. My mum calls biting cold winds lazy, because she says that they go right through you instead of round about you, but this one is a thief too because it has robbed me of my vodka buzz.

The walk and the wind have sobered me up, so I decide that since Im coherent and early Ill have a read of the paper. I sit on the platform bench and wrestle with my broadsheet. Holding it aloft, it submerses the top half of my body, but still, without looking, Im aware of a mans eyes peering at me intently. I feel unsettled, although not afraid, but Im reluctant to look up. This isnt any normal day.

On any normal day, I would put the paper on my lap, make eye contact and ask him directly why he is looking at me. Today though, Im off my game. I bend my head and look intently at the page, seeing nothing but letters that dont make sense, hoping that his attention will be diverted. But in two strides, he is standing directly in front of me. My heart begins to beat faster. I know that Im safe here with so many commuters on the platform, its just that Im unsettled and dont want confrontation. I want to be home.

He begins to speak, with a soft, inquisitive, plumy Scottish accent.

Louise Dempsey? he asks, with a hint of disbelief.

I havent been that girl for a very long time.

I look up, and all I can see is a multi coloured bobbled woollen hat and an enormous grey overcoat.

Until I meet his eyes.

And then, the hat, the coat and the posh accent are irrelevant as the years roll back and we are both 16 again. I can only nod, and within a second, he has me airborne as grabs me under the arms and in an embrace, swings me around in the air.

Ive been trying to find you, I gasp, for ages; Ive been online for ages. I didnt know where youd all gone. He pulls me close and Im engulfed by his oversized coat. Where have you been? His reply doesnt surprise me at all. We pull apart, giddy with spinning and emotion.

In Japan, with the circus, he grins as he holds me at arms length, I was training to be a trapeze artist. We both begin to laugh, aware but uncaring of the staring commuters standing in the cold night air waiting to go nowhere special. Because there isnt anywhere else that could be as special as here and what is happening right now.

Ive just been to a funeral, said cheerio to my uncle, and on the same day, I meet you. Whod believe this? My voice trails off and I shake my head in wonder.