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Passed as a doornail
A few weeks ago I made a will. Not because I'm expecting to die soon, but because I'm not, and still feel that its contents and purpose have nothing to do with me. Of course I could get run over by a bus -- this seems to be the usual manner of untimely death -- but overall I'm pretty confident that this Will won't be my Last, as it claims to be.
Shortly afterwards, a saleswoman from the will-writing firm called to offer me a safety deposit facility in which to place my will, together with a list of contacts: "to make things easier for the beneficiaries after your passing".
Passing? It's bad enough to hear that others have "passed", but to euphemise one's own death, to oneself, is just perverse. Once you've passed you'll be past caring.
What's wrong with death, anyway? It is what it is and it goes with doornail. Passing is for fancies, tests and wind. And Pippa, of course, but I'm pretty sure that wasn't a snuff poem.