Agnes's Grand Exit: A Posthumous Production

Agnes Gribble, whose eccentricities had aged like a fine, slightly moldy cheese, summoned her nephew Bernard. Bernard, a man whose life ambition was to live as unremarkably as a beige wall, braced himself. Agnes, it transpired, was pre-planning her “Grand Exit.”

“Bernard, darling,” she announced, stirring her tea with a tiny silver skull spoon, “I’ve decided I want to go out with a bang, not a whimper. Or, preferably, a glitter cannon and a live mariachi band.”

Bernard blinked. “At your... well, your funeral?”

“Precisely! And none of that dreary organ music. I’ve curated a playlist: ‘Stayin’ Alive’ for the procession, ‘Disco Inferno’ for the pyre—oh, yes, cremation, darling, less fuss—and ‘Another One Bites the Dust’ for the scattering of ashes. From a hot air balloon, naturally.”

Bernard choked on his Earl Grey. “A hot air balloon?”

“And about the urn,” Agnes continued, undeterred. “Not a boring vase. A miniature replica of my prize-winning petunias, in full bloom, crafted from solid gold, with little diamond dewdrops. And my taxidermied cat, Mittens, must be positioned eternally batting at it.”

“Mittens died in ’98,” Bernard pointed out.

“Nonsense, darling, he’s just... *resting* at the taxidermist’s. He’ll be back. And you simply *must* ensure the catering includes mini quiches and those tiny sausage rolls I adore. No one likes a hungry mourner, Bernard. It makes them gloomy.”

Bernard scribbled, a mixture of horror and grudging admiration stirring. “And the eulogy?” he ventured.

Agnes paused, a wicked glint in her eye. “Ah, yes. You’ll read it. And make sure to mention my scandalous affair with the milkman in ’73. It’ll give them something to talk about.” She winked. “Just don’t actually *cry*, darling. It’s a celebration, after all. Of my incredibly fabulous, utterly inevitable departure.” Bernard sighed, realizing his unremarkable life was about to get a whole lot more memorable, starting with the procurement of a disco ball for a funeral home.