Death

I was sitting in a toilet that was not my own - this opening sounds as if I had intruded into someone else's toilet unbeknownst to them, but this was not the case: I was perfectly within my rights to be there. The toilet, as all good toilets do, had a few books on the window ledge - it also had no lock. The books were an interesting mix: Christian theology, surfing and The Brothers Karamazov (a book I read a while back after Philip Yancey claimed that it was the greatest book ever written: I thought it was alright, but I wouldn't give it quite such elevated praise).

Knowing my time would be brief, I plucked a book of quotes from Welsh Protestant minister Martin Lloyd Jones. His is a name I am familiar with, but I actually know very little about him: it turns out he was a passionate evangelical Christian who ministered at Westminster Chapel during the Second World War. The collection of quotes was alphabetised around theme and so naturally I flicked through to the letter 'D' where I found one of the more challenging subjects I have been asked to write about: death. He said something along the lines that death of the body was not something to concern yourself about in comparison with the destiny of the soul.

I didn't go any further into his thoughts on other subjects and that proved to be fortunate because my aunt opened the door mere seconds after my trousers were back around my waist.

I rejoined my extended family for our Bank Holiday gathering and thought no more about Jones' words for the moment, but the subject of death was not over for the day. About an hour and a half later I stood looking at the blank eyes of my childhood cat, Chessie, under a bar of light with my dad. Moments earlier the decision had been made to put her out of her suffering (something was hypersomething in her throat, she had a dodgy leg, was deaf and she was 93 in cat years). I had been chosen to accompany my dad because I was the least likely to cry. My dad briefly discussed the destiny of Chessie's soul. I said that she'd be able to hang out with Bootylicious, my dead bottom-wiggling rabbit, Brian, my dead long-haired guinea pig and Charlie, my dead and rather vicious gerbil. I have no idea whether that's actually true and Martin's words don't really offer anything on the matter either. Perhaps she'll be able to listen to the man she was named after (Chesney Hawkes) for all eternity, although his egocentricity would surely start to grate after a while.

I shall conclude with the lyrics of another song, one my sister Susanna used to sing about our cat when she was too young to realise that she was only brown and not brown and white:

I'm so happy,

You're so happy,

We're so happy,

My cat is brown and white.