Later a dismaying notion strikes me. I struggle to decide what to wear to the office, to church and for our occasional wild nights at Bella Pasta. Now I must ready a costume for the Last Journey. Just in case. I do not wish the Vicar to have a hand in this: I would spend Eternity in a boiled wool cardie.
And so I ask the church sideswoman whether tweed or tulle would be best. She says greens are nice. We discuss my wardrobe and ponder my Boden notch-neck-knit dress with my patent Mary Janes. These don't get out much because they torment my left bunion. The sideswoman says that, under the circumstances, that needn't concern me.
She starts to worry about her own sartorial destiny and I suggest stripes. Briefly we feel satisfied that our fate is safely ordered. But, when I next climb into the notch-neck-knit dress, I shiver.
Death, ordinarily, is an implausible notion negated by the vital business of child-rearing and Boden catalogues. But when it's clad in my best wool day-wear it is ominously real. The sideswoman suggests a gap in the market for a posthumous fashion advisory service, but I have lost my nerve. I'm going to sleuth online for a shroudmaker.