Some South Woodford scribbles from DD, our resident diarist and observer of all things local. Illustrated by Evelyn Rowland
We all like to be appreciated. “How was the apple crumble, dear?” (Hoping for “Full marks, love,” or something similar.) “Does this dress suit me?” “Spot on! You look great.”
This gentle custom of kindly oiling the wheels of our day-to-day relationships has mushroomed into a universally established marketing ploy: after any purchase, the almost instantaneous message from companies and traders large or small is: “How did we do?” There may even be a short questionnaire: “Thank you for renewing your car insurance with us. On a scale of one to five, please tell us how likely you are to recommend us to your friends.” “How would you rate the look and overall feel of our app?” “We would greatly value your comments on your experience when buying your pliers.” “You could even tell us more by leaving a short video response.”
Even as I am writing, I have suddenly recalled one of my earliest (and really rather treasured) ‘feedback’ experiences. It was about 15 years ago and it arrived in the post. It was a customer satisfaction questionnaire from the crematorium as a follow-up to Uncle Bert’s funeral. A modestly elegant response form to be completed and then folded, three ways, in accordance with the diagrammatic instructions, then moistened round the edge-flaps, pressed to seal and dispatched. No stamp required. Printed in black and white with pale lilac subheadings. Not your average sort of mailing; nothing like the Plumbs’ loose-cover sale catalogue or the water bill. No, this was truly something on which to exercise the mind. I was intrigued.
“How do you normally travel to the crematorium?” Normally! As if one were commuting on a regular basis. Fair enough, when you’re in your eighties, there is a regrettable increase in the number of these journeys. The roll call of much-loved friends and relations who have set off before us does tend to accelerate these days and remind us of our own mortality.
“Did any of those attending the service have any difficulty in finding their way to the correct chapel?” On balance, there seemed little point in outlining the problems of one posse of relations who did have difficulty, not in finding the right chapel, but in finding the right crematorium. Unfortunately, they appeared just a few crucial minutes late. Their arrival immediately followed the coffin’s departure. The curtains had already inched their respectful way round Bert’s brass-handled box. Non-arrival at funerals is probably endemic hereabouts: the City of London Crematorium in Manor Park is not far, as the crow flies, from the Manor Park Crematorium. It’s all too easy to get confused. And you can’t very well request an encore for latecomers. The curtains reopening and the coffin trundling back in. Sort of instant reincarnation.
“Have you any views on the toilet facilities at the chapels?” I left this one blank.
“Was the role of the chapel attendant helpful to the proceedings?” In a word, well, two words: “Not really.” But I elaborated: in bitterly cold conditions, the attendant had refused to allow our patiently waiting crowd of mostly elderly mourners to enter the cosy, deserted chapel just four minutes before our designated time slot, on the grounds that we’d all have to be turned out again if the undertaker failed to show up with the body. I asked if our particular undertaker, who came strongly recommended, had ever been known to miss the deadline, so to speak. But by then, the attendant had hurried inside to keep warm.
“There is current technology available that will allow heat recovered from the cremation process to provide heating for the chapels. Would you find this proposal objectionable?” Frankly, a question better left unasked. Too much information, I thought. But something to ponder over still. Not over the principle of the thing of course. We children of the recycling age could scarcely take exception to such an eco-friendly stratagem. But rather over the nature of the available “current technology.” Current, hinting at something new. Technology suggestive of computer wizardry. But surely pipes had been pretty standard equipment for centuries?
The last question: the finale: “Would you like to be involved in our Cemetery Feedback Group?” A winsome plea: “Do let’s keep in touch. We know cemeteries aren’t bread and butter to you but they are to us, so please come back and tell us how we are doing.” Who knows? Perhaps it was at just such a feedback group that successful policy changes were hatched that led to the much coveted accolade, ‘Cemetery of the Year 2001’. I noticed this printed boldly on the receipt when I paid for the urn. How had this honour been achieved? On what criteria? Presumably, there are only so many prettiest villages in Essex to inspect in an average year. Do the same panels of judges fill up their fallow periods strolling around graveyards with their clipboards, awarding points for an extra-clean catacomb and a well-swept vault, high-quality plastic grass matting and tenderly pruned memorial roses?
Is it shocking to be so frivolous about a subject so serious? Our local ‘places of rest’ are, of course, superbly run. But funerals do, not infrequently, attract somewhat dark humour, don’t they? Is it something that makes it easier to cope? In fact, often, the Order of Service may include an imagined, upbeat message from the departed, much-mourned friend. Something along these lines?
I’d like the memory of me to be a happy one. I’d like to leave an afterglow of smiles when life is done.
To contact DD with your thoughts or feedback, email dd@swvg.co.uk
