Visits

Every single time I've visited Aunty Marie this week I've wandered into telling some anecdote and realised half way through that it ends with a reference to death.
This is absolutely driving me out of my tiny cotton picking cranium.
Every single attempt I've made at conversation I've found myself stumbling into rabbitting on about the bloody ephin grim reaper.
I told a story on Friday about a neighbour getting knocked down by a car. Saturday it was about my old dog kicking the bucket. On Sunday a train crash for crying out loud.
What in tarnation is going on?
It's positively Freudian.
Only without the sex.
This evening my cousin Howard, another visitor to the aunt, leaned over and asked me how my father was. Believe it or not I replied before I could stop myself:
"Ah I'll believe he's dead when he's six foot under."
I have no clue what on God's earth I was playing at.
But whatever the hell is going on in my legendary brain, I can't stop it.
Later I was telling the aunt about the fire alarm going off at the Whitewater Cafe while the Mammy and I were ensconced there for afternoon tea.
And my punchline...
"When that alarm went off I realised just how much I'm not ready to die."