I want to be a firework when I grow up.
More accurately, I want to be a firework when I die.
Spiritually, I prefer the idea of burial, of gently turning back to the earth from whence I came, and all that. But I am damned if I am going to be dug up again to make room for a housing estate, or to have my thigh-bone measured by archaeologists, or grave-robbers, as I prefer to call them. So when the time comes I wish to be cremated. But that’s rather dull. I want my ashes to be packed into fireworks; great big jolly purple ones like alliums, ones that go ”whhhhheeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee” or, better, ones that go “BANG! – whhhhheeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee” and hang around in the air for five or ten seconds in a slowly expanding sphere.
People can, and presumably do, do the most extraordinary things with their relatives remains, from turning them into diamonds, to burying them in coffins painted to look like parcels and labled “return to sender”.
But, me, I want my ashes scattered, and scattered in a jolly, noisy and cheerful way.
Mulled wine, anyone?