An obituary notice

I had my regular midweek hit with William this morning. I didn't have the chance for anything to eat before playing and the difference between that and having something to eat was quite noticeable, especially as the hour marches on.

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Jan, Gill, Mike and I, popped into Nîmes this afternoon, me to buy a new phone and Jan to buy some bed covers. All the jobs were completed satisfactorily, with me getting a Sony Ericsson V800 and Jan getting some bed covers. I think that I came out best on that one.

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A very poor, frail, old man walked into the local newspaper office to place a notice that his wife had recently died. After he had shuffled disconsolately into the office, he asked the clerk how much it would cost. The clerk recognised him as an ex-employee who had worked for the newspaper many years before. She told him that it would cost £1 per word in the obituary section. He slowly put his hand into his pocket and brought out £3. She was somewhat embarrassed to realise that he was only entitled to three words. He ambled slowly over to a desk and, getting hold of a stubby pencil, he pondered for some time before he wrote slowly and carefully on the order form. With his head hanging low he shuffled back to the clerk and handed her the folded note. The clerk immediately felt very, very sorry for the poor old man as she opened his notice and read what he had written. He had written "Deidre is dead." The clerk fought to hold back her tears, given that this was all the poor old man could afford to write about his wife after 60 years of marriage. Full of good resolve, she marched into the back office to talk to the editor of the newspaper. She pointed out that the man had recently lost his wife, after 60 years of marriage, he was an ex-employee of good standing and he had fallen on very hard times. She eventually persuaded the editor to increase his allowance to 2 words for a £1 and proudly went out to tell the old man of his good fortune.
The old man could barely contain his thanks, and shuffled back to the desk to rewrite his notice. As he pondered over the correct words to use, he sucked on his pencil and wiped away the odd tear. After 20 minutes he folded the paper and shuffled miserably back to the clerk. The clerk looked at him with love and great pity and took the crumpled piece of paper from his hand. She slowly unfolded the rewritten script and looked carefully at what he had written. He wrote: "Deidre is dead - car for sale."