ONE of the best-read pages in your Worcester News is the good old hatched, matched and despatched.

Journalists make a habit of studying the family announcements, for they contain all manner of snippets and sometimes feature notices about the famous, or indeed, occasionally the infamous.

Of course, we all inevitably end up on that page at some stage, our names usually surrounded by dark borders rather than up in lights.

And quite often, such sombre notices contain messages from the bereaved, exhorting potential funeral-goers to wear bright clothing rather than dark as “it’s what uncle Tom would have wished.” But count me out. When my time comes, I want a proper send-off in funereal black. Yes, when I’m called to Glory, I insist on as much wailing and gnashing of teeth as possible.

Men might struggle to stifle a tear and grief-crazed women will hurl themselves into the cold grave crying “No, no! This cannot be!”

Meanwhile, friends and enemies alike will talk in huddled groups saying things they don’t mean.

And on a distant hill, a blind fiddler will be playing The Warwickshire Lad. The only trouble is that I won’t be there to see it. Or will I?