the funeral problem

 

Jane came with me to the funeral. We left little Jed with one of Jane's friends, another unemployed Dalek.

 

My father had very little family, he never married. Most of the mourners were other officials from the council, some of whom I recognised. Between them, I calculated, the people arranged around the grave that afternoon had caused approximately 93% of all the hassle and problems us off-mainlanders had ever faced. They were all dressed in black, understandably, but after a lifetime spent on dour council business, they somehow looked blacker, and, well, nearly dead themselves.

 

“The dead and the deader,” I whispered to Jane, who smiled.

 

It was strange watching a man I had just discovered to be my father being buried. I had never even had a chance to talk to him about it.  

 

The vicar gave a long sermon, recounting frankly tedious tales about my father’s career and his achievements, all of which seemed to involve generating massive quantities of paperwork for no apparent reason.

 

After the service we all piled into the Town Hall, where there was a celebration of my father’s life, with free food and drink.

 

Jane and I kept out of the way of the other mourners, just observing. From overheard conversations it was clear that most of the people there had worked with my father in some capacity, though there was a small number of individuals who didn’t know him at all and had just come for the free drink.

 

I soon identified a small group who comprised my father’s closest friends, these were the people everyone else approached to offer their condolences and thank for the free booze.  In a lull one of these men approached me.

 

“Did you know him well?” he asked me.

 

“No,” I said honestly.

 

“You’re not from the council then?” he persisted.

 

His unwanted questions triggered something in me. I decided to be honest. “No, actually he was my father.”

 

“Your father?”

 

“Yes, I’m his long lost love child.”

 

“Good lord, then you must be Luke!”

 

“No,” I said, confused, “I’m not luke.”

 

“Then you’re Simon. He told me so much about you. He was so proud.”

 

“I’m not Simon either,” I said.

 

“Darren?”

 

I shook my head.

 

“Surely you’re not Sonia?”

 

I was getting fed up with this. “Yes,” I said, “I’m Sonia. I’m his long-lost daughter.”

 

The man was clearly delighted. “Everybody,” he announced to the room, in a voice that was clearly equipped for major announcements, “Sorry to interrupt, but I have an important announcement. This,” he gestured to me, “is Sonia, his long-lost daughter. She’s finally shown up. Do join me in welcoming her.”

 

There was a big cheer from everyone in the room, after which I was besieged by people coming up to meet the famous Sonia:

 

“I’ve heard so much about you.”

 

“He was so proud of you – his only daughter, a beauty queen.”

 

“Is it true you’ve been married to George Clooney, Matt Damon and Brad Pitt?”

 

It took me several hours to get away.

 

Jane, of course, had been in absolute hysterics the whole time, I’ve never seen her laugh so much.

 

“I love you Sonia,” she said to me as we were leaving.

 

“I love you too,” I said. We kissed, passionately, in full view of everyone, not caring what gossip we’d generate – that the beloved daughter Sonia was a lesbian.