Pathetic Fallacy

Pathetic Fallacy is when a writer gives human feelings or characteristics to things that aren’t human – usually the weather, or parts of nature like trees or the wind. Think of it as nature sharing the feelings of the characters, or reflecting what’s happening inside them. It’s NOT simply describing the weather; it’s about the weather feeling a certain way.

I woke to the sound of rain.
One week ago we had Jims celebration.
The sun shone.
Nigh on 100 people turned up from all over the place.
The nephew arrived on Wednesday from Portugal.
The Kraut arrived on Thursday.
The Swede arrived on Friday.
The Welsh stayed in a Shepherds hut in Mayfield.
The Devonians bought a night in a cheap hotel in Tunbridge Wells.
The Chelsea musician stayed in a B&B in Groombridge.
Londoners came, from Norf and Sarf.
The Coastal contingent came from Brighton and Hove actually, whilst old thespians rocked in from St. Leonards.
All the delicious neighbours walked to the pub.
Childen and babies came.
The homeopath and the acupuncturist shared the food.
Yorkshire puds and sausage rolls. Handmade scotch eggs and a pile of sandwiches. I got to eat the last Yorkie pudding. Fitting me thought.
The whole day had been taken care of by neighbours and fRamily.
Generosity flowed with alcohol and more booze.
The afternoon started with a speech from our surrogate/adopted son. His impromptu performance made me cry.
The second speech came from a delicious young woman who told a tory about the ‘oosbind. His warmth and sensitivity. A speech came via the daughter of an actress, who was performing at the Edinbrough Fringe.
The director from the Arcola theatre spoke of the old git acting, his brilliance nd generosity.
The dawters Godmother cried as she described his kindness and humour.
Then it was my turn. I wrote a speech and we had illustrations of his life.
Playing the bones and exhibiting his perfect comedy timing.
Then a bunch of us retired to the snug. Jools played the guitar and we sung everything from the Beatles to Abba. At midnight we counted down to his 83rd birthday and sung ‘Happy Birthday’ with gusto.
As I write rain is dripping off the wisteria.
Swooshing cars and mighty, grey clouds.
The memorial book was signed and a big black and white photograph of the ‘oosbind is propped up by his computer.
I’ve sent a death certificate off to the will people so we can get the last drops of his savings.
‘You’ll never have any money with that man.’ said my father of the old git. He was right. If the Northen thespian had any spare dosh it went to charities and Single Malt Whiskey.
It was a fitting tribute to eighty two years of life.
We included a sing along, the colourful mourners belted out ‘Always Look on the Bright Side of Life’ and Guffawed at my bad jokes.
Everybody played their part.
After three hours sleep I made breakfast for fourteen of us.
Baked beans, Sausages, crispy Bacon, a huge buttery omelette. I cook it like Bill Grainger. The Australian chef. Crack the eggs into a bowl, add cream, whisk it and then cook it in hot butter.
Grilled tomatoes, buttery mushrooms, smoked salmon, cream cheese and a mountain of warm, fresh bagels.
I laid the food out. The guests fill their plates. I left them to it, Within 45 minutes every morsel was consumed, washed down with a champaign cocktail.
The old git would have been proud.

In the garden the German acupuncturist told the ensemble how the Northen Thespian loved Marzipan.
In her German accent it sounded like Marzeeparn.
‘What?’ said the floor manager.
‘Marzeeparn.’
She opened up a big tin filled with fancy wrapped marzeeparn.
‘Would your wife like some?’
‘Why would my wife like some Temazepam. She’s mad enough already .
‘Not Temazepam, you idiot Marzeeparn.’
Everybody in the garden was partially sighted, partially deaf or ever so slightly demented. All conversation was peppered with ‘What!
By 7.00 p.m everybody had departed.
Then standing at the door was Janette from Hastings.
She’d driven to the pub, asked the landlady where the wake was.
‘Sorry love’ she said. ‘It was yesterday.’
She made herself a cuppa gifted me a poetry book and left.

‘How are you dealing with the anticlimax?’ said John from Greenwich.

To be honest after two months of prep there is nothing to look forward too.
‘As flat as a pancake.’
I said as flat as a pancake.
The rain hammered on the window.
Dialysis was a relief. Lying there doing nothing, the rest of my life stretching out before me.

The apples are falling off the trees.
He used to sit with his penknife cutting thin slivers off the cooker eaters and nibbling away by the Japanese Maple. The beautiful red acer was an anniversary gift from him.

During the eulogy there were two gusts of wind, the screen wobbled back and forth.
‘That’s him.’ said the empaths.
Then the screen collapsed missing my head by a whisper.

The ‘oosbind had left the building.

Nearly taking me out with him.