'The Show Must Go On (or Roast Lamb Was His Favourite)' by D X Lewis

Ed and I just couldn’t resist one last pint of Old Peculiar in the Rats’ Castle, so we slip to the table 20 minutes late for lunch.   

Our parents and grandmothers, who disapprove of alcohol on principle, but especially on Sundays, greet us with disapproving looks and faces even longer than usual. 

“It looks as if the vicar gave a very serious sermon,” I whisper tipsily to Ed, not quietly enough to avoid being overheard. 

I notice that Granny, my maternal grandmother, who’s skinny with thin hair, is dabbing her eyes with a cotton hankie. 

“Your lovely Grandpa has just passed,” says Mum mournfully, failing to suppress a sob.  

“Passed what, Mum?” I say, hiccupping, and still under the affluence of incahol.  

“Your grandfather died while you two louts were getting drunk,” says Dad.   

“Where is Grandpa?” says Ed, falling suddenly sober, despite five pints.   

“We laid him out on the lounge sofa,” says Mum.

“Shouldn’t we call a doctor or ambulance?” says Ed. 

“Grandpa wouldn’t want lunch to spoil,” says Mum.

“Roast lamb was his favourite.”