I was at dead uncle Arthur's funeral. The service had just finished, and I was sat outside on one of the
benches, having a fag. A figure came shuffling over towards
me; it was my dim-witted sister, Anne. She came
and sat down next to me.
She’s so
thick that she’s forgotten over the years that she is supposed to hate me
like
the rest
of my
family do.
“Hi.” She said. I smiled and nodded, but didn’t say anything; it’s always
been more
fun just to
let Anne do all
the talking. “Poor uncle Arthur eh? Where do you think he’ll be
now
then?” She asked.
“In his
coffin, being burnt.” I replied. I looked at the end of my cigarette as I
pondered on
dead
uncle Arthur's cadaver.
“I didn’t
mean that. I meaned (sic) where do you think he’ll be now like, his spirit and
that?”
She
explained.
“I
haven’t the slightest.” I stated.
“Because
I was watching this programme the other night, and it said about a lot of
people
getting
MBE’s
when they die.” Said Anne. I looked at her, slightly confused, and wondering
what
relevance
this curious statement had to do with the whereabouts of the spirit of our dead
uncle.
“Oh, you
mean posthumous recognition of their contribution to society?” I asked. “I
don’t
think
that dead uncle Arthur will be getting one of those,” I said, “unless the Queen
starts
giving
MBE’s out for outstanding contributions in being miserable, aggressive and
vulgar.”
Anne had
a far-away expression that always signalled deep confusion.
“I don’t
understand what you mean.” She said.
“Posthumous
MBE’s. I don’t think uncle Arthur will be getting one off the Queen.” I re-
iterated.
“What,
the Queen causes people to have MBE’s?” Asked Anne.
“Well,
she doesn’t cause them to have MBE’s, she awards them with MBE’s.” I told her.
“What? As
they die?” She asked.
“Well,
no, not as they die, but when they’re dead.” I replied. “What happens is that
you’re
recognised
for some sort of outstanding contribution to society after you’ve died and are
given a
posthumous MBE.” I was now beginning to doubt what I was actually saying; was
there
even such a thing as a posthumous MBE? Suddenly, I wasn’t sure.
“It
didn’t say anything on that programme about the Queen giving them the MBE’s.” Stated
Anne. “It
just said that they started getting the MBE’s as they died.” I began to feel
that we’d
gotten
our wires crossed somewhere down the line when she said this.
“Anne,
did they say ‘MBE’s’?” I asked.
“Yes.”
She replied, firmly.
“Not
‘OBE’s’?” I asked.
“Yes,
that’s what they said. OBE’s.” She told me.
“You mean
‘out of the body experiences’ then? Did they mention that on the programme?” I
asked.
“No. They
said about NDE’s.” Said Anne.
“Near
death experiences.” I said.
“Yes.
That’s what I’ve been saying all along. NDE’s.” Said Anne, pathetically. I took a deep,
deep drag
on my cigarette and sighed, hoping that she’d read it as a signal to just go
away.
She
didn’t.
“I’m
getting some new binoculars in a few days time.” I said. I couldn’t think of
anything
else to
say.
“Ooh,
that’s nice. Where are you getting them from?” She asked.
“I’ve
ordered them off the internet, from some place in America.” I said.
“Is that
where it is then?” Asked Anne, cryptically.
“Is that
where what is?” I asked.
“The
internet. Is that where it is then? In America?” She said.
“Well,
yes, I suppose so. But it’s not just exclusive to America.” I pointed out.
“But
that’s where it’s run from? America?” She asked.
“Anne,
you do know about the ‘World-Wide Web’ don’t you? You do understand what it
means?” I
said.
“Yeah, I
do now. It’s like you say; it’s in America.” Said Anne. I despaired.
“Well,
no, not exactly. The internet isn’t just in America, Anne. It’s all over the
world. That’s
why it’s
often referred to as the World-Wide Web.” I explained. Anne had that far-away
expression
again.
“So is it
over here in England as well?” She enquired.
“Yes.” I
said.
“Then why
didn’t you just order your binoculars from this country instead of travelling
all
the way
to America to get them?” She asked. I didn’t even bother trying to explain.
“They
should get here soon. In about three or four working days.” I said.
“Does
that include weekends?” She asked. I didn’t respond. There was no point. It was
all
hopeless.
I could have been there all flippin’ day
trying to explain the difference to my stupid sister
Anne of
‘working days’ and the weekend, so I swiftly changed the subject.
“How’s
Archie?” I asked. Archie is her husband. Like Anne, he isn’t very bright, so
they’re
perfectly
suited. “Is he not here today?” I enquired.
“No, he’s
back working on the oil planet.” She replied. I had visions of Archie in an
astronauts
suit, all on his own on some blackened world at the edge of our galaxy, many
light
years
away, drilling for oil, with a UFO flying by somewhere in the distance.
“Don’t
you mean ‘oil plant’, Anne?” I asked.
“Yeah,
that’s the one. It’s under the sea.” She said. Now I had an image of Archie in
a deep-
sea scuba
diving outfit, drilling at rocks on the bottom of the ocean floor. There was an
octopus
floating past him, and several Stingrays were fleeing the sound of his drill.
“What?
Archie is working underwater?” I asked.
“No,
stupid.” Said Anne, with outrageous audacity. “The oil. It’s under the sea.
Archie works
above
it.”
“Then you
mean he’s working on an oil rig? Not an oil plant?” I asked, seeking
clarification.
“Yeah,
that’s the one. An oil rig. It’s in the West Sea.” She stated, very
knowledgably.
“Anne,
there’s no such thing as the ‘West Sea’. I think you mean the ‘North Sea’.”
“Yeah,
that’s the one.” She said. I rolled my eyes and dragged some more on my almost
finished
cigarette, wishing that I was somewhere, anywhere else...