Funeral in the rain

Turns out three magpies might not be for death after all. It might be for a wedding. And there's much debate about the whole 'five for silver, six for gold' bit. I have been looking into it, in the interests of science. And the interests of not getting on with any real work.

Death is, however, on my mind, First it came for Gary Coleman, and I did not speak out, for I was not Gary Coleman. Then it came for Dennis Hopper, and I did not speak out, for I was busy watching the Candy Coloured Clown bit from Blue Velvet. Then, last week, it came for my old, poorly, Aunt May, and - I'm hoping - took her somewhere better. Hopefully not in the same bus and Hopper and Coleman.

My Aunt May was not the same as the one from Spiderman. I never had an Uncle Ben, for one thing. Had some of his rice once, but that probably doesn't count. My Aunt May was actually my dad's aunt. As children, my brother and I used to go round every Tuesday and torment her for the evening while my dad went to spend quality time with some beer. My mum worked nights, so this was his only night of freedom in what must have otherwise been a miserable week of looking after my whining, selfish younger self.

Aunt May never had kids, so she used to enjoy spending time with us, her oldest great-nephews. Quite why I'm not sure. At that age, my brother and I were selfish, demanding monsters, hell bent on making a plaything of her emotions and wrecking her house. It was like inviting a couple of miniature Simon Cowells into your home to belittle your life, mock your possessions and eat all your biscuits. Despite this she was ridiculously kind and patient, not even minding when we span her comfy chair round and round, shouting 'Die, Davros. Die!'

Her most notable achievement, in my eyes, was that she took me to see Star Wars for the first time, when I was seven. A more brilliant cinematic experience I have never had. I can't imagine I ever will. I don't remember much about my life before, say, nine years old, but this trip I remember with great clarity. I came home bursting with unspeakable joy, drawing poorly realised X-Wings and TIE fighters on every available surface. My life changed, that day. Now I knew what it was to have a work of art transform my every waking moment, so that everything else became a blank surface onto which real meaning was inscribed by my new obsession.

From there came my love of spaceships, and robots, and monsters, and lasers, and scrambling around pretending to save the galaxy. From then on every stick was a light-sabre, every dustbin a robot, every pile of dirt an alien planet. I even tried to use the force a number of times. And, if you are a boy, so did you. And of course, from here came the love of Doctor Who - that other great, transforming text of my life.

You may think I am ascribing too much importance to this event (and you may think, hang on, weren't you being sad about your Aunt a minute ago, and now you're talking about aliens again). Well, no I'm not, and you're a liar, and your hair looks crap, and those shoes don't go with that face. Thanks to my Aunt May, I saw a film, at 7, that truly inspired me. And then she took me to see Time Bandits, and Raiders of the Lost Ark, and... well, lots of things. Lots of wonderful things.

Since getting older I have been shamefully neglectful of most of my relatives, and this has been very much the case with May. Attending her funeral yesterday, I considered again how I tend to assume that, at some point, I'll catch up with everybody. I wrote to May occasionally, but that was pretty lazy, really. Most of the letters were just photos of me to remind her what I looked like, and a bunch of paragraphs bitching about the Phantom Menace.

But she made a difference. To me. And to lots of people. And now she's with Gary Coleman, and Dennis Hopper, nattering away randomly. Coleman looks up at Hopper. Hopper looks down at Coleman. I'm no Theologian, but that sounds like the beginning of an interesting day in the afterlife.