Essays in Idleness

Chatting with my priest, the late Jonathan Robinson of the Oratory, about death — a topic on which he is so much better informed — I recall his warning. We, who have been in the habit of making a splash, whenever splashing was possible, look ahead to some glorious final play. We will be surrounded by our admirers or, almost as good, by the people who detest us as we are martyred. Either way, it will be a scene of victory.

But perhaps there will be no one watching, no living creature, not even a cat. No one will be in the least startled, not even the medical performers, who see this sort of thing every day. This is especially likely now, when family deathbed scenes have gone out of style, and the Batflu provisions (or whatever succeeds them) specify that everyone must die in isolation. Indeed, “Medical Assistance In Dying” is the only way to get an audience.

Among the advantages of being a “Far Right” person (apparently about three-quarters of the population) is that, short of some splash that will be recorded in “the media,” no one cares what happens to you. This means that, whether the audience is present or absent, you will be under no obligation to entertain them. This makes the impending conversation with Christ something on which you may focus entirely.

The more devastating if all He has to say is, “I do not know you.”

Note: one may not get His attention by “making a splash,” for instance by much moaning. Holiness doesn’t work like that.