Here she lies, pickled in gin

We read The Times.  The Other One does not.  She doesn’t even read The Telegraph.  I don't know where she gets it from!  She has taken to flagging down the nearest bus simply to obtain a copy of their Metro newspaper (price gratis).  I happened to take a peek at one of these earlier in the week, and noticed an article about people who write their own obituaries as part of their funeral planning.

How fashionable, I thought!

So, here's mine:

The Scottish beau-monde were today shocked to the very dungeons, when Lady Cynthia Airedale was pronounced dead after an unfortunate incident involving an old Barbour jacket, a pair of Hunter wellies, a home-made gin distillery and a tractor.  We shall all miss her no-nonsense wit and the unique way in which she viewed the world.

Born in [CENSORED] in a sleepy village in deepest, darkest Dorset, to Maj. E.J.R.S. MacNaughton-Hogg-Balantyre (RE retired), land agent, and Sylvia (née FitzEustace-Burbage), a rosy-cheeked, plump housewife and sometime girl-friend of both Doodles Weaver and Gen. Charles de Gaulle, Cynthia rapidly exhibited signs of a knack for agriculture.

Given her first tractor – an antiquated Massey-Ferguson – at the age of three, she won several trophies in the county under-8’s tractor-racing championships, frequently against determined opponents at least double her age.  Scandal broke, however, when her trophies were rescinded; rumours that she (or someone) had ‘beefed up’ her tractor turned out to be true: it was discovered that its ‘tractor engine’ was merely a hollow shell containing a supercharged 20-litre V-12 Rolls-Royce ‘Kestrel’ aircraft engine, as well as a missing Jaguar straight six fitted in lieu of a starter motor.  In her defence, Cynthia said she didn't think anyone would miss them.

Her first words were 'Clover, if you kick the bucket over once more…!' and no one could catch and milk a goat quite like she.

Soon, however, she had to leave the sunny hills of home to attend St Margaret’s School for Precocious Girls.  A very jolly-hockey-sticks period of her life ensued, during which her West Country accent did not die, but rather just faded away.  Also during this time, due to an unexpected rash of alcohol poisonings, wanderings into canals, and very poor firearm safety among a large group of near and not-so-near relatives, Cynthia’s father accidentally became an earl.

After a very productive time at school and then at finishing school, Cynthia attended the Royal Agricultural College, Cirencester, where she met her husband, (not yet Sir) Henry Airedale, whilst beagling.

She then moved to Scotland and got on with it on her new estate of Airnefitchie.

She acquired a criminal record, but due only to a single incident of indecent exposure, i.e. riding through the Royal Highland Show in Edinburgh ‘Lady Godiva style’ to protest against the price of milk and how farmers should get paid more for it by the supermarkets.  Despite most of the attendees being in favour of this peaceful protest, one anxious mother did complain that her already highly-sexed young teenaged son had not left his bedroom since they got back from the show; and the police felt compelled to issue a warning.

She is survived by her husband (just about) and three children, The Other One, Alistair and darling Sylvie.  The battlements are just about surviving her too.

My headstone shall simply read:  'Here she lies, pickled in gin.'