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Edna's Death Cafe

As in life, death is not without its agenda. This is something seventy-nine year old Edna Reid finds out when her partner, Ted, suddenly dies.

To cope with her loss, she sets up a Death Café to break down the taboo around death and to encourage other members of the community to discuss it openly. Over tea and cake, the participants hide their fears behind a veil of dark humour.

Religious fanaticism clashes with Victorian spiritualism as Edna’s meetings trigger lively conversations on the fragility of life, anxiety over dying, cost of funerals, and making sure long-lost greedy relatives don’t benefit from inheritances. 

Soon, a series of events begin to unfold which threaten to undermine Edna’s livelihood and the Death Café meetings. These events just happen to coincide with the arrival of a mysterious stranger into the village.

Who is she and why is she so hostile to Edna?


Talking About Death, Celebrating Life

YODO! No, it’s not a new greeting. It’s shorthand for You Only Die Once, so why not make it a good death? There has never been a better time to get talking about those “face behind a cushion” topics we’d all rather pretend weren’t going to happen. At least, not to us.

The international Death Cafe movement has been encouraging us to share what’s on our mind about death, dying and bereavement since 2011 when Jon Underwood set up the first Death Cafe meeting in Hackney, washed down with tea and sweetened with a bit of cake. Over 6000 meetings in 56 countries have been held to date but you won’t find negativity on the menu.

It’s a safe space run with no agenda, no aim to convert to a belief or sign up to a philosophy of life (or death). No one is under pressure to do or say anything. No long lectures or guest speakers pontificating, no funeral services representatives trying to sell you a plan. Just you, others like you and the facilitator wanting to share what’s on their mind. To find out about a meeting in your area or to see what’s involved should you want to set one up, visit www.deathcafe.org Follow them on Twitter @DeathCafe

Let’s get back to YODO. Being near Birmingham, I shall be attending A Matter of Life and Death Festival (May 10th – 26th), an arts of cultural programme of events with death as a core theme. BrumYODO is a local collective set up with the aim of helping the people of Birmingham have more open and honest conversations about death and dying. The collective describes themselves as “a growing group of artists, undertakers, food artists, hospices, palliative care professionals and generally all-round interesting folk. http://brumyodo.org.uk/matter-life-death/

So why am I so passionate about the need to talk about all things mortal?

As someone who has suffered from death anxiety (thanatophobia) ever since my Grandad died when I was ten (fifty years ago), I discovered that I wasn’t alone. Part of any fear is driven by not owning it. Bringing it out into the open is one way of disempowering that fear and empowering ourselves. In doing so, we add more value and quality into our daily lives by making every moment count.

            I’ve attended a number of Death Cafe meetings which have provided the inspiration for my latest novel, EDNA’S DEATH CAFE, set in the Derbyshire Peak District, my childhood stomping ground. Fiction can often reach parts that other communication channels cannot. We can be alone with a book, argue with the characters, ponder on their words and reflect on their lives, hopefully to find resonance with ours.

            I’ll be writing more about the book, about bereavement and my work as a newly trained funeral celebrant. I’ll leave you with my favourite bit of philosophy. Death is not the greatest loss in life. The greatest loss is what dies inside is while we live. Norman Cousins.

Edna’s Death Cafe will be published by Matador in September 2018. Keep up to date with the news on Twitter. Follow @Angelena Boden @matadorbooks


It Started with a Cold

   Tara sneezed her way through a box of tissues until Mark insisted she took a couple of sick days.

   ‘I can’t. I’ve got clients all day and…’

   ‘And they will have to wait. ‘Tara’s husband urged her back into bed and put a mug of hot water and lemon into her hands. ‘You’re over doing it and it’s not good for the baby. ‘I will ring Curtis Lamb and say you’ve got the flu.’

      Tara tried to protest but the scratchiness in her throat made it painful to talk. She smiled and stroked his fingers. ‘You’re good to me,’ she said, leaning back into the squashy pillows and closing her eyes.

   She heard him  leave for work and reached out for the new crime novel she was reading on her commute to work.  Travelling  into London every day was getting her down she and couldn’t wait for their big move to  South Wales for a simpler life.

 Mark had been offered the transfer as a partner in the firm so, Tara didn’t need to work full time.  She could do anything she wanted. It was her time now.

   As the day wore on, her  coughing turned into something more than just an annoyance. Ribs sore and aching from the effort of dispelling whatever was inflaming her lungs, she struggled out of bed, pulled on a dressing gown and hobbled to the bathroom. Groping through the medicine cabinet, she found an old bottle of linctus, the top of which was bunged up with gunge. When she finally released it, she took a long swig along with some pain killers.

   ‘I’m home. You feeling any better?’

   Mark hung his pin-stripe jacket over the newel post and leapt up the stairs. Horrified at the sweat pouring down his wife’s face, he called the emergency doctor.

   ‘It’s alright love,’ he said softly, running a flannel under the cold water top, wringing it out and applying it to her burning forehead. ‘Someone’s coming to see you.’  Within minutes of him speaking, the door- bell chimed.

  Mark escorted the doctor to the bedroom. ‘She’s 3 months pregnant,’ said Mark, as a deep frown almost buried the doctor’s eyes.

   Pulse, temperature, blood pressure and other tests were conducted at speed before Dr. Rahamtullah said, ‘Your wife has a form of pneumonia. I’m calling for an ambulance. Pack a small bag for her please.’

  That evening, Mark sat at his wife’s bedside in a private room of the Royal. The words bounced around his ears. ‘I’m so sorry about the baby.’

   He wanted to run outside to tear at his hair and howl. How could this be happening? He’d just been made partner for God’s sake.

  As Tara’s breathing became more laboured, he watched the colour drain from her face. Her lips twitched with unspoken words.

Mark ran out into the corridor. Nurse? Doctor? Quickly.’

 But it was too late.

‘It was only a cold,’ whispered Mark. ‘ Just a stinking, rotten, common cold.’

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