“The sky dripped slowly onto the head of Lucinda. The distance between reality and imagination was narrowing; so much so that the Prime Minister had taken on the appearance of a falafel. She was staring at him, this falafel shaped being, trying to think of something to say. She had waited years for a chance like this but now, as is often the case, her teeth hurt.
“Maa’aaam…” Said the PM. “I feel for your teeth. And so does the country.” He paused and stroked his legs as if he were preparing to be a pervert. He composed himself. “Maa’aaam… I cannot yearn nicely and then there’s the anger that… The anger that…. THE ANGER THAT!” He got down on his front tits and started to affect the sound of a hen. It was awful, and through all of this Lucinda was lost for words. She had been brought up that way and it was the last thing she needed, especially with the weather being touch and go.
“Excuse me,” spoke a woman who had just entered the cabin and seemed concerned. “I hate to disturb but, you know. That’s right.” She laughed and was propelled through the ceiling. Finally, Lucinda got her nerve and stuck the boot in.
“Argghhh!” Wailed the PM. “I don’t believe it.”
Unimpressed with his tone and believing him to be a crumpet, Lucinda packed him into a suitcase and made for the street. When she realised that she was walking down the street with the PM in her suitcase she felt many things, but mainly proud. She knew that she was late for work but she’d been here before. Nay, it wasn’t so unusual. She had experience and that was a very noble thing. She was a good egg and she had a Bachelor of Arts to silence the doubters. And believe you me, there were many doubters. There always are. Because really, you never really know if this is a bad dream. And really, you never know if you’re going to wake up, do you?
So, she got to the Post Office and there he was; her next door neighbour. The one that seemed a little dim. She studied his face and knew that her work was not wasted. She handed him the suitcase and off he went, not knowing what he’d got out of bed for or what he was getting himself into, or even that he was carrying the PM in a suitcase down Cowbridge Rd East.”
The priest stopped speaking and smiled at the mourners. Then, he held out his arms.
“Life is but a suitcase full of useless items.”
He stared up at the sky into the pissing rain.
“Now, with sorrow, we must commit Lucinda to the ground.”
The coffin entered the muddy hole of death, gradually. It was going to the Earth. It was the final resting place. It was Lucinda’s funeral and no one knew what the priest had been banging on about for the past ten minutes.
