It has been a grim, grey, gloomy afternoon oop north and I think it was that which reminded me of a story told to me by a bloke I once worked with.
He started his working life as a cub reporter on the local weekly paper and he soon discovered it wasn’t the life of glamour he was expecting. Apart from the awful pay, he also got all the crap jobs to do.
One of these was to garner information on the dead for the obituary column. When the paper got wind that someone had died, he was sent round to their house armed with a pro forma for the bereaved to fill in. Where deceased worked, family, interests etc.
Anyway, it was on a day such as previously described that saw him trudging to several curtain-darkened households handing out his bits of paper. By the time he reached the last one he was both dampened and despondent.
A little old lady opened the door and his opening gambit was, “Sorry to intrude, but I believe your husband died recently.”
“No, no,” she said “he’s been very ill, but he isn’t dead.”
“Oh,” replies friend finding it hard to keep the disappointment out of his voice. Then he brightened, “Can I leave you this form then just in case?”