'What's the last word you'll say when you die?' the 11-year-old asks from the back seat of the Skoda. 'Mine will be 'me'! Or maybe 'shopping'.'
'Mine will be 'f***!' shrieks the 9-year-old, gleefully envisaging a scenario where there can be no comeuppance.
'Dad's will be 'Jesus',' says the 11-year-old with withering scorn. 'What'll be yours, Mum?'
Over the steering wheel I ponder. I've given much thought to my preferred Apocalypse meal (boiled eggs), companion (the Vicar) and venue (Waterperry Gardens), but none at all to my parting shot. I'd like to think it would be 'sorry' for the distressing number of things I meant to do but didn't. And the distressing number of things I did that I didn't mean to. More likely it would be my catch-all for every unexpected circumstance: 'blimey!'
The children have tired of waiting for my answer. 'I bet yours will be 'minute',' prompts the 9-year-old grinning at his sister. 'How come?' I reply. 'Because when God decides your time's up, you'll say what you're always saying...' and there comes a sing-song chorus from behind me:
'Will you just wait a minute!'
What will be your last word?