No laughing matters

Must spend the next few days shopping for suitable clothes. The sombre occasion of the family funeral is now two weeks away, and I feel the need to complete preparations of outfits for three young ladies safely ahead of time.

Really, I feel a heavy burden of responsibility to present my young brood to the immortal world of the Church, preferably not looking like I hoiked them from the garden mud patch two hours before and couldn't be bothered with a flannel. That is our normal state, but it does not seem very respectful, especially when we are bound to stand for several hours under the gaze of judgement day.

And it is not only the Lord we must present ourselves to. More important, it is the Welsh crowd. They are coming North en masse, and they scare me witless. Expectations of my children are sure to be high. The Welsh crowd, composed mostly of dowager aunts who look exactly like Miss Haversham, will be decked out in Victorian black lace, having all been born in 1842. They take things like funerals and children very seriously indeed.

Well, I am just grateful that Shark, Squirrel and Tiger are not snooty about sniffing round the charity shops, not at all. They are delighted to be let free amongst the second-hand frills with a tenner. The only stop on their ambitions is me, reminding them, as they emerge from the sale rail clutching a wildly improbable outfit in lime green polyester, that their chosen outfit must be suitable for attending a funeral and not a fancy dress party.

So that is our education, probably for the week. Discussions about appropriateness of purple and frill when Welsh dowagers will expect black and scowl.