People on the other side can move into The Meld, surrendering their goes and giving up contact with the realm of the living whenever they like. Some people decide to go almost as soon as they arrive, as they don’t have any interest in the land of the living, and don’t care for the pleasures of the other side much either. Others wait for a loved one and move on together, like Percy Curdle, who was killed in World War Two and waited forty odd years for my friend Doreen. Most people have moved on long before they they have been dead for fifty years. Some hang on a little longer, usually those who passed over to the other side whilst they were still quite young, and who still have close friends or relatives alive. Not many hang on for more than eighty years though. Yet there are some who don’t seem to hear the call of The Meld at all. They seemingly refuse to accept that they are dead.
One such person is the philosopher Jeremy Bentham, who died in 1832. He was, and still is, a lovely man who had some good ideas about peace on earth and animal rights. He had some ruddy funny ideas about death though, and arranged to have his body preserved sitting upright in a glass case at the University where he worked in London, where he can still be seen to this day. He can also still be seen on the other side to this day an’all, because he has flatly refused to go into The Meld, and prefers to watch the events unfold in the realm of the living from his little cottage, which is next to a stream and gets all of its power from a watermill. He looks after horses, has three dogs, and was delighted to welcome Tony Benn over for tea and biscuits, after his recent death.
There are others, even older. Mother Shipton for instance, died in. 1561 and will probably never relinquish her ego to The Meld. During her lifetime she made many prophesies about events that would happen far into the future, including that the cave where she was born, in Knaresborough, would one day be bought by a magician, who would eventually become frustrated and sell it again, because his daily showers in the waters of its well did not restore the hair to the top of his head. And that’s tragic!
I always fancied having my old house become a bit of a tourist attraction, but unlike mother Shipton’s cave, which is in lovely Yorkshire countryside, my old bungalow is just off a main road in Hull, and is currently occupied by some filthy beggars who keep old fridges and washing machines in their garden, which people seem to enjoy pittling on, on their way home from the local pub.
Never mind. Tomorrow, I will spill the beans on Angels and Fairy Godmothers and all that malarky.
If you can’t sleep because of the implications of these little homilies on the afterlife, write your worries down, and I will do my best to soothe them. When I wake up.