When I go in Vietnam

You can’t really complain about funerals. There’s no point during proceedings where that’s acceptable.

Grief is, of course, understandable but how 24 hours of snake charmer music helps is debatable.

Especially when the band tires — or nips home for a sleep — and the funeral music CD is switched on and turned up to 11.

But what I can say is this:

It looks increasingly like my life will be spent in Vietnam. And when I go — I’ll probably go here. So I’d like a small bash. A quiet, short one.

Stick Who Knows Where the Times Goes on moderate-sized speakers and afterwards people can stick around for a drink or shoot off.

I understand if they’re busy.

No need for anything more. Nothing noisy.

Later others might care enough to ask: “How was it?”

The answer, hopefully, being: “You know, quiet.”

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