Thunder and human remains.

A kitten is chewing on my toe, my dogs are on the bed and barking and D is in bed next to me muttering very adult style complaints as he pulls the shades in a weak attempt to quiet the mutts. It's 7am.*Yawn* 

Sleep is finding me again, the kitten has moved onto the dog for teething relief. I'm just tucking back into my lover down pillow when the phone rings. WTF? It's 7am, someone better be dead or dying. As it turns out it's Ripper and as it turns out someone has died and he's collecting ashes for two bodies on his way home so we'll get a couple of precious hours to talk.

Okay, I'm up. Sort of.

I decide if I'm going to be any sort of good listener for an early bird chat time with Ripper my ass needs some caffeine and sugar, STAT! I tell him I'm running to the corner store in search of unhealthy, but legal, levels of stimulants. On my way to the car what sounds like bombs exploding booms nearby. Okay, put heart back in chest and proceed to the car; if it IS bombs I'm DEFINITELY going to need an energy drink as it's clearly going to be a long day. But no... another crash identifies itself as nearby thunder. All hope of having a quiet morning is gone as my dogs will surely be shitting themselves and I'm no Temple Grandin (Wiki link enclosed for those of you who've been living under a rock), there's no "Hug Box" in my house to shut the fuckers up. Plus, my son will be awake and glued to a window somewhere hoping to witness something catching fire by lightning; a life long dream of his. Good man. 

What appears as an energy drink to most is life blood to me.

I drag myself back inside and listen intently while shotgunning my "Health drink" (YOLO!) while Ripper introduces me to Brian and Ruth, both of which now have lives that are contained to tupperware containers in a plastic shopping bag to be delivered to a funeral shop Monday. They will sit in a Kia van over the weekend and...well, they won't be doing much of anything. 

Maybe it's like Toystory but with human remains. Maybe they'll have a drink over the weekend and wind up drunk shouting obscenities at passerby's while snickering as people look to see who is shouting at them. 

 I was on the phone in Ripper's pocket while he sat at the hospital waiting to collect Brian and Ruth and let me tell you, if someone once told you there's dignity in death, there.is.not. Ripper sat casually chatting with some bloke about the week's events, his upcoming trip to see me, etc. Nobody is respectfully handing over beautiful urns with somber faces; most of the time nobody even acknowledges these deceased except to verify they have the right sack of bones.

This reminds me: STORY TIME! Grab your blankey and a mug of cocoa and snuggle in boys and girls!

So when I first met Ripper I was enamored with what he did for a living and how different it was from what I'd always imagined. One of the first stories he told me involved a three month old frozen corpse, a lazy mortician, ill sized coffin and a hairdryer. Do I have your attention? Alrighty.

Ripper was preparing a coffin for an upcoming "contract" funeral; contract funerals are paid for by the UK Government and often have no attendees. This usually means no family *pauseforthesadnessyoushouldbefeeling* No? Yeah, I usually don't, either. In this particular case the guy had been dead three months and frozen at the public mortuary. Ripper had pulled his freezer open and taken rough measurements for the coffin. The day arrives for burial and he goes to pick the guy up and stuff him in his box. Somehow, his foot had frozen at an odd angle and he wouldn't fit into the coffin. The mortician, well adept in these matters says casually "Oh, that's no problem." He busts out a hair dryer from somewhere near by and aims it at the poor bastards foot; he's being DEFROSTED! HA! Ripper stared on in silence and slight disgust as the mortician made small talk and cooked Mr. Poor Bastard's foot. A putrid smell filled the room as three months of thawing decomposition filled the air. After a few minutes the mortician turns off the hair dryer, having slightly burnt the guy like a pop-tart and shoves the now floppy foot into the coffin looking all pleased with himself. 

The lesson here is...well, there is no lesson. Maybe make sure you're in a comfy pose when you kick the bucket lest you become an overcooked drumstick when you meet your maker? Yeah, that sounds good. Let's go with that.

Well, that's all I have time for. Next time on story time I will share the story of dead Father Christmas- the beard of white mold.