This is the only story for which I've ever won a proper prize. In fact, having waited for years for a prize to come my way, like the No.11 bus, two came at once. This won 1st Prize in the 2022 Federation of Writers (Scotland) flash fiction category, and it also won 3rd prize in the Scots category.
Mind when ah discovered Mags Cook deid in her kitchen? Mean an’ cantakerous as they come? Turns out she’d fallen oot wi’ every freend, an’ a’ her family, tae, no’ just her neighbours. And guess whit? She wiz sae determined naebody wid benefit from her passin’ that she left a’ her belongins’ tae her three dugs.
She hated undertakers tae – ah mind masel’ her callin’ them “maggots feedin’ aff corpses” – so she’d arranged her funeral in advance oan the cheap. She’d even passed some jinery course an’ built her ain coaffin frae a kit!
Ah find a’ this oot at her funeral at Warriston Crem a few days later, an’ ye can imagine ma shock when ah discover there’s only five people present a’thegither – me, a nice young wumman “celebrant”, an’ three undertakers each lookin’ like Rikki Fulton straight oot o’ yon Reverend I. M. Jolly. They wheel the coaffin in oan a trolley an aff we go.
The celebrant says a few brief words aboot Mags – ah mean, there wisnae much pleasant tae sae, wiz there? – then reads a nice wee poem. Then it’s oan tae the cremation itsel’. Ah mean, why waste ony mair time? So now the undertakers move the trolley an’ start tae lift the coaffin up the cremation platform.
At that point things take a bit o’ a turn. Turns out that yez need a bit mair than Access 1 jinery tae pit together a self-assembly coaffin, either that or yez have tae read the instructions right. Mebbe it wiz frae IKEA an’ in Swedish, ah dinnae ken. Whitever, as the coaffin reaches the platform, the tap end cams adrift frae the rest, an’ tryin’ tae catch it, the I. M. Jollies panic. Mags – wrapped in a canvas bag, thankfully – starts tae slide through the front. There’s naethin’ the undertakers can dae tae stop the auld wumman zippin’ right oot! Mags ends up oan the crem platform while the Jollies are left standin’ in the crem chapel wi’ a dae-it-yersel’ coaffin in twa bits. For a moment, they actually debated keepin’ the coaffin back, sortin’ it an’ usin’ it fur some ither soul, but in the end they sent the pair o’ them, Mags an' the box, doon in twa journeys. Fortunately, the service had been that short it wisnae a problem.
The I. M. Jollies were pros, like, poker-straight faces, but me an’ the pair wumman celebrant couldnae help laughin’, an’ soon enough that set the undertakers aff, tae. Ah said it wiz the biggest laugh the auld crone had gi’en anyone in her entire life. The celebrant quoted some line frae Shakespeare, “Naethin’ became her in life like the leavin’ o’ it.” Macbeth, she said. Ah widnae ken. Wan fur Wikipedia, ah suppose.
Nae bunfight, of course, Mags wiz mean tae the end. But me an’ the celebrant went fur a cuppa an’ a fly cemetery at that new cafe in Canonmills efterwards. Ah paid. Ah’d had a laugh.
She hated undertakers tae – ah mind masel’ her callin’ them “maggots feedin’ aff corpses” – so she’d arranged her funeral in advance oan the cheap. She’d even passed some jinery course an’ built her ain coaffin frae a kit!
Ah find a’ this oot at her funeral at Warriston Crem a few days later, an’ ye can imagine ma shock when ah discover there’s only five people present a’thegither – me, a nice young wumman “celebrant”, an’ three undertakers each lookin’ like Rikki Fulton straight oot o’ yon Reverend I. M. Jolly. They wheel the coaffin in oan a trolley an aff we go.
The celebrant says a few brief words aboot Mags – ah mean, there wisnae much pleasant tae sae, wiz there? – then reads a nice wee poem. Then it’s oan tae the cremation itsel’. Ah mean, why waste ony mair time? So now the undertakers move the trolley an’ start tae lift the coaffin up the cremation platform.
At that point things take a bit o’ a turn. Turns out that yez need a bit mair than Access 1 jinery tae pit together a self-assembly coaffin, either that or yez have tae read the instructions right. Mebbe it wiz frae IKEA an’ in Swedish, ah dinnae ken. Whitever, as the coaffin reaches the platform, the tap end cams adrift frae the rest, an’ tryin’ tae catch it, the I. M. Jollies panic. Mags – wrapped in a canvas bag, thankfully – starts tae slide through the front. There’s naethin’ the undertakers can dae tae stop the auld wumman zippin’ right oot! Mags ends up oan the crem platform while the Jollies are left standin’ in the crem chapel wi’ a dae-it-yersel’ coaffin in twa bits. For a moment, they actually debated keepin’ the coaffin back, sortin’ it an’ usin’ it fur some ither soul, but in the end they sent the pair o’ them, Mags an' the box, doon in twa journeys. Fortunately, the service had been that short it wisnae a problem.
The I. M. Jollies were pros, like, poker-straight faces, but me an’ the pair wumman celebrant couldnae help laughin’, an’ soon enough that set the undertakers aff, tae. Ah said it wiz the biggest laugh the auld crone had gi’en anyone in her entire life. The celebrant quoted some line frae Shakespeare, “Naethin’ became her in life like the leavin’ o’ it.” Macbeth, she said. Ah widnae ken. Wan fur Wikipedia, ah suppose.
Nae bunfight, of course, Mags wiz mean tae the end. But me an’ the celebrant went fur a cuppa an’ a fly cemetery at that new cafe in Canonmills efterwards. Ah paid. Ah’d had a laugh.
