The aunt of my wife died last week. She was 82. As the English are wont to say on these occasions, she had a good innings; glibly equating one person’s life with a creditable batting performance in a cricket match.
Silvana was a woman I met on only a handful of occasions so, while her passing is sad, I can’t pretend it left me distraught. I therefore attended her funeral feeling more like an observer than one of the bona fide mourners.
The experience left me reflecting on some of the contrasts between the way the Italians and the English process their dead.
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