Ain't Life a bloody funny game!

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That’s the last line of my poem: A Pastoral Pastiche. I thought of it today because it occurred to me that perhaps Death is an even funnier game.

Death… or as my friend called it ‘The great disappearing trick’…. Now you see him now you don’t.

Bloody hell…where’d he go?

We talk a lot about the meaning of life… what about the meaning of Death? Perhaps, like life, death has no meaning. 

Death stalks you like a hit-man. You know he’s out there somewhere but you never know when he's going to strike; or where; or how.

Will it be quick and relatively painless? Or will it be slow, lingering,  agonizing?. Or will it be the mind that goes first?  A disintegration of personality and self until, finally, there is hardly anything left of the person they called ‘You’. 

Yes, the hit-man has all the choices. Unless...

You take control!

You may not be able to win, but you can decide how you’re going to lose.

In a way, you can get one up on death. No more the Hit-Man sneaking up on you, taking you unawares.

You can  at least exercise some choice of route into the great unknown

 You decide the Time, Venue and Method.

This requires courage. Taking your own life used to be a criminal offence. It isn't now but it is a criminal offence to assist someone to take their own life. (only the British could come up with this legal nicety). The medical profession doesn't like it; it’s considered ‘not playing the game’. And the final approbation comes from religion, the organisation that is supposed to be understanding, compassionate, loving: taking control is a mortal sin.

I am not advocating suicide - far from it.

There is so much to live for - and while there's life there's hope.

I'm just making the observation that some people (for whatever reason) decide to take matters into their own hands. They didn't have a say as to when they were going to enter this world, but they want to decide when they are going to leave it.

Sorry to hear about Dave. 
I suppose you could say that in the Employment Race, Dave is no longer in Pole Position.

I saw the doctor on Monday. He prescribed some different medication. When I read the leaflet the possible side effects (are these what the medics call 'contra indications'?) (covered just about everything apart from 'might make you a bit dead'.

I wrote this poem:

Possible side effects

Do your ‘Happy Pills’ have contra-indications?

Does your tongue look like the flags of all the nations?

Do you have the squits, or are you constipated?

With a bowel that feels like it’s armour-plated?

Does a wild wind whistle through your pipes and plumbing?

Do you never know just when the next fart’s coming?

Are you sensitive to light – or dread the dark?

Do you feel you’re being followed in the park?

Are you always tired, and often short of breath?

Are you troubled by persistent thoughts of death?

Would you say that you have gone off having sex?

Do you start – then can’t remember what comes next?

Do you find that certain parts begin to twitch?

While others are inflamed, and don’t half itch?

Is your vision slightly blurred around the edges?

Do you throw up every time you eat your veggies?

Are you tired and sort of listless in the morning?

Do your kneecaps start to tremble without warning?

Do you sometimes find it difficult to pee?

And when you do, is it the colour of stewed tea?

Do you get a stabbing pain behind the eyes?

Is that a nasty rash between your thighs?

Has some sticky stuff been coming down your nose?

And burning holes in all your nice new clothes?

 Does the room spin when you get into your bed?

Is there a constant buzzing in your head?

Does your heart begin to race – or go real slow?

Do you shiver if a breeze begins to blow?

These symptoms will, quite quickly, disappear,

Perhaps within six months – at most a year!

And remember – it’s a smallish price to pay,

To get you through the long and lonely day.

Anyway, I must go now Anna, the world needs attending to.

At tip for your exams: Read through the entire paper before attempting any questions.

Until we meet

George