An old neighbour of Maisies died. The funeral was yesterday. Julie rang me for the post mortem so to speak…

• How was it, Bernie?
• Aww, very sad Julie, very sad.
• She was a great age all the same.
• Ninety three
• And I bet she looked every bit of it.
• Julie, that’s awful. But you’re not wrong, god bless her.
• Sure she looked ninety when we were in school.
• She was a narky bitch back then, and sure it showed on her face. She never gave them poor kids a minute.
• They’re not kids anymore. Sure the eldest must be heading for eighty himself. You’d think they’d be glad to see the back of her.
• John is seventy six. Theresa is the baby and she’s sixty eight. The other five are all in between.
• Were they really that heartbroken?
• They were yeah. Sobbing they were. In fairness, aul Josie had mellowed in her old age.
• The end of an era when your mammy dies.
• It was heartbreaking to see an old man stand at his mothers grave and say ‘goodbye mammy’. I’m not the better of it.
• Aww that is sad, Bernie. Anyway, was there a do after?
• Yeah funeral soup and sambos in the pub, and karaoke afterwards.
• Karaoke? Are you serious?
• Yeah, Pauline organised it. John wasn’t too pleased, but after a few pints he was up doing Tom Jones.
• Aww did he sing ‘she’s a lady’?
• No, Delilah.
• Lol, at least he didn’t sing sex bomb.
• He did that as his encore.
• Good man, Johnner.

Gotta love an Irish funeral all the same