All my life everybody always said I'd be late for my own funeral.Well now I am, it's finally happened. Everybody was right. Take a bow, have a slice of cake, come and collect your winning ticket. The name on that ticket is Arthur P Ramsbottom. The author of this unfortunate piece. Because I'm dead. And I'm late, my funeral has started without me.
Since I was a small child I have collected excuses. While other kids were collecting football stickers and beanie dolls I was soon learning the value of stuffing implausible excuses into my pockets, whenever I got the chance. As I got older my pockets grew deeper and my excuses more elaborate. I got to the point where I had one for every occasion, But sometimes it got me into trouble. I was often guilty of mixing up excuses and I'd pull out My Alarm Clock Didn't Go Off This Morning instead of I'm Sorry The Train Was Late or My Mother In Law Has Died instead of I Had A Dentist Appointment, The problem was I had too many excuses and that was my downfall.
And now here I am. Late for my own funeral and I've made a dreadful mistake. I've never round to making up a suitable excuse for this one. I can't very well say I'm Sorry The Cat Got Hit By A Car or My Phone Battery Died. They're all waiting for me in the church and I'm not going to make it. I was looking forward to the elegy. To the vicar telling everybody about my life and all the stupid things I've done.
I wonder if he'll mention the time I fell off a ladder while trying to catch a glimpse of Nelly Perkins in her underwear. I was in a neck brace for weeks.
(C) Ally Atherton 2016
305 Words
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