I had an Aunt Florence. Worked as an undertaker. Did odd jobs for the living.
She used to have me over for tart and cupcakes. We’d sit around her new coffin and I’d munch on the dessert while Aunt Florence dressed up some cadaver. And she always liked to slurp her tea from a saucer. It gave me the horrors. I much preferred to see her make a small incision in the jugular, drain the blood into a bucket, and slap the dead man’s limp willy over his stopped heart.
She was also one for the boys. Loved them when they got run over or drowned or choked on the Christmas sixpence back in the days when Sterling was a man around town and not a fey monetary bruiser with a weak left to the Euro.
And she always made the boys handsomer under her scalpel and embalming fluids. Once she made some waif into the darling of society. He was passed from house to house on Silver Terrace until his mother and father were brought to tears.
When the time came for her own casket, she gave us all the slip. Drove off in a fancy new hearse with an undertaker with half her skill but with a predilection for necrophilia.