She was a good old egg...

James is convinced that I'm going to die running the half marathon on Sunday and is rather worryingly going ahead with plans for my funeral (and my cremation - whether I die in the race or not - he wants to scatter my ashes in the Wolfson gardens). What worries me most is that he is doing it all with such relish. Anyway, here's an e-mail I sent him this morning:

Hi James

On this bright and breezy March morning, and before I depart for the half marathon and almost-certain death, I thought it would be a good time to let you have a few ideas for my funeral:

1. People may wear black if they feel it to be the most appropriate colour of mourning, but everyone is to wear brightly-coloured pants. And nipple clamps.

2. Mo to dance - obviously. The more streamers, the better.

3. Dr Page to play his guitar and sing "I can't smile without you" as my coffin disappears to be cremated.

4. Top funeral hits to be played at the wake (I'll leave money at the Plodge for the booze bill):

- I'm Still Standing
- Road to Hell
- Living in a Box
- Going Underground
Any other suggestions welcome

I'm not sure about having my ashes scattered in the Wolfson gardens. I don't yet feel that Wolfson is my spiritual home. And I'd rather cause far more inconvenience to the person I am trusting to scatter my ashes (you, as it happens). I thought the summit of K2 might be nice, no?

I am copying this to Mo in case you try to turn my funeral into some sort of inappropriate James-athon that shows no respect for my memory. I've left a letter for you in my room giving the story of the vicar and the g-string and various other stories I was saving for another day.

Goodbye cruel world.
Rebecca Louise