Dead strange

On the way to the station each morning, I pass an undertaker’s. Funnily enough, it isn’t the shop that makes me lose the will to live, but regular commutes on the Gatwick Express. The undertaker’s is merely a daily reminder that my travels up and down the same stretch of track are ultimately worthless, and that one day we all end up on the same path clutching a one-way ticket to Deathsville. See how commuting instils one with such joy?

But I digress. The undertaker’s window display is always, let’s say, imaginative. Previous exhibits have included a  wicker coffin (great if you want to go to heaven in a hamper). Then there was the white cardboard coffin with a patchwork denim lid. Dead groovy. Now, inexplicably, the window boasts a sea of pebbles and a deckchair. So Brighton, so bizarre. No gold handles. No brass nameplate. No explanation. Do the recently deceased simply sit back, admire the view and wait for St Peter the deckchair attendant? Is the message: Life’s a beach, and then you die? Whatever the intention, congratulations to the undertakers who, when it comes to coffins, obviously think outside the box.