When you get to my age, which, by the way, is 78, there are one or two things that come along and make you think.

As do most folk of my vintage, I usually turn to the obituary page as soon as the local newspaper arrives.

It can be a shock to read about a sudden death of a friend, aquaintance or former colleague, or a relief to see that someone who had been ill for some time had eventually slipped away.

One fact of life (or death, for that matter) that always strikes me as prophetic is that in the days not so long ago, most of the dear departed were always older than me.

But now, the majority are usually younger. The odds are not in my favour.

A funeral is usually a sad affair, but they don’t always always have to be an unhappy occasion.

We recently attended a service of committal at the crematorium for a lady in her mid sixties who had worked with me in Strand Street for many years.

I can honestly say that it was one of the most sensitive and sincere services that I can remember.

All too often a funeral can be a struggle to sit through. But now and then, along comes a gem that restores your faith in humanity.

My late colleague had not been a regular church-goer, but the lady vicar who took the service, and who had only met the deceased a couple of times, was able to talk about

her as though they had known each other for years.

The eulogy was a delight, if I can use such a word to describe such an occasion.

It was carefully crafted and beautifully delivered by the man who had written it.

A good job, well done.

One of the problems of growing old, is the fact of life, that to be fair, no matter how you look at it, you aren’t going to get much older.

Your days are numbered.

If you have a family wedding or a special occasion to look forward to, I wouldn’t go to the expense of buying a new suit or booking a holiday too far ahead.

But if you fancy a nice piece of fillet steak for tea, why not go the whole hog and get some mushrooms and a nice bottle of Merlot to wash it all down with?

As I am sure of getting the last word, this time, on the subject of funerals in general and this one in particular, I would like to add my fourpenn’th to the words of the eulogist and the priest.

Susan, my late colleague, and I worked together for nigh on twenty five years.

In all that time, I cannot ever remember her being late for work or having a day off through illness.

We never had a cross word or a disagreement and she never had a bad word for for anyone.

My dear friend, it was a pleasure to have worked with you and a privilege to have known you.

Sometimes, after I have been to a funeral, I like to spare a minute or two and take a wander round some of the old family graves.

It can be fascinating to read the history of the dear departed and imagining them at rest together.

But I’m sure that the image that the tombstone conjurers up of a loving family in the care of the angels must sometimes be far from the truth.

At one stage in my life, my wish was to be have my remains interred in a peaceful corner of a country graveyard.

But after due consideration, I have realised that I would be forever worrying over which of my two son’s turn it was to cut my grass.

I have since changed my mind and now my wish is to be cremated.

Also, not only would I like my remains to be disposed of efficiently and permanently, in the unlikely event of me being on foreign soil at the time, just dig a hole where I lie.

For the record, the least bothered member of our family is as unconcerned as I would expect her to be. As long as it doesn’t hurt, c’est la vie.

Pullyman - aka Michael Cowin - was diagnosed with Parkinson's Disease, a condition that affects people in different ways. Michael discovered writing and Island Life is featuring some of his musings. Sometimes topical, sometimes nostalgic, read about life as seen through the eyes of Pullyman