What a carve up!

 

I’ve just signed the forms to donate my body to science. This isn’t an altruistic gesture, it’s simply to save my sons the cost of shipping my carcass back to the UK or paying an arm-and-a-leg to have something done with it in Spain. They are preferring to see it as some sort of noble gesture on my part but I suspect they are more than grateful that the old stiff won’t be as big a pain in the arse in death as he has been in life.

And ‘stiff’ isn’t necessarily what the carcass will be when the ambulance arrives to cart it away. I live alone, have precious little social life, and I always say that if I paid only for the phone calls I received I’d have a bloody small phone bill. I suspect that one day I’ll simple cark it and the only way anyone will know is when the smell of rancid meat starts seeping out into the stair well. About five weeks, I’m told. Three if we have another summer like the last one.

Frankly, I don’t care. Once I’m gone, I’m gone, whether I’m carried out in a box or ladled into a bucket. It’s all one to me. But I did have a momentary shimmer in my certitude while I was flitting around the internet trying to find out what to do, and came across a photo in Levante, one of Valencia’s dailies. In all the other articles I’d read, if there was a photo it was usually of a reclining corpse covered with a white sheet, or a group of studious students engrossed in some skeletal part. But not in Levante, oh no, they cut to the chase.

There was the cadaver, arse up in the air – or at least it would have been if the arse hadn’t been split open to expose the whole of the innards, which, curiously enough, are mostly a pale shade of yellow, once the guts have been removed.

I know that to become highly-honed medical specialists, ham-fisted students have to practise on something and the piece of meat that constitutes my body at the moment it probably as good as any, but it all seemed so …. inelegant. No more inelegant than having your insides lifted out and dispersed as life-enhancing transplants, I suppose, (‘harvesting’, as they euphemistically call it), but I think I’d rather have maintained the image of some caring young think carefully wielding a scalpel as they furthered the cause of medical knowledge than the thought of me arse up posing for a newspaper photographer. Somewhat lacking in dignity, don’t y’know.

But there again, it will save my sons a few bob, and an awful lot of paperwork.

If you would like to know more about Spain, visit my web site, www.derekworkman-journalist.com , and Spain Uncovered. Articles and books can also be found at Digital Paparazzi.

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