It's Your Funeral

In the days before Daughter starts at her new school, we have some soul-searching conversations. They range from "What exactly is dandruff?" through to what sort of funeral we might like.

"When I die, what will you do for my funeral?" she asks Not-So-Small Boy.
"Oh, I don't know. What would you like me to do?" he says.
Daughter thinks for a minute and then says, "Well, I think I would like to have a funeral down on the rocks in Cornwall."
"Oh, that's boring," her brother scoffs. "At my funeral I want loads and loads of animals. And balloons," he adds.
Daughter rolls her eyes.
"What about you, Mum?" she asks. "What would you like at your funeral?"
"I don't suppose it matters much, seeing as I won't be there," I say. "But I can tell you where I would like to be when I get old."
Daughter rolls her eyes again.
"You already are," she mutters.
"Thanks."
Not-So-Small Boy shuffles over on the sofa and nudges me. "Go on, tell us, Mum."
"OK. Well, I would like to be somewhere where I can see running water every day," I say.
"Oh, that's easy," says Not-So-Small Boy.
"It is?"
"Yeah! I'll just put you in a chair next to the kitchen sink and leave the tap running."

It's great to know I will be in such safe and loving hands in my dotage.