GOING to a funeral can be educational. The first thing I discovered was that someone had taken in the waistband of the trousers of my wedding and funeral suit to such an extent that I found it difficult to fasten.

Actually, this is my only suit. After years when it was necessary to have such items in my wardrobe, I ditched all but my Marks and Sparks blue stripe as soon as office commitments allowed.

This only comes out on special occasions where I can no longer get away with wearing jeans and a T-shirt.

And now someone had taken in the trousers without my knowledge. Or had I put on an inch or two around the waist?

What had happened to that sylph-like figure of years ago? I hadn’t noticed the change. But then, when you look at yourself in a full length mirror you tend to admire the front view rather than turn sideways and be confronted with the irrefutable signs of age and too many chips.

I huffed and puffed until I got them fastened and secured them with a belt in case the buttons popped at an awkward moment.

“What time will we have to leave?” asked my wife Maria.

“About 11am,” I said.

“But it’s only in Dewsbury.”

“I haven’t been to Dewsbury Crematorium before and you never know about roadworks. I’d rather be early than arrive late.”

As it happens, roadworks were augmented by a broken down truck in the outside lane on Leeds Road. My agitation increased as I watched the time tick away.

I had Googled the crematorium and had printed a map as well as writing down directions. Even so, I thought we had gone too far before I caught the left turn at the last moment.

“Not far now,” I said.

And drove straight past it.

I realised we were on the wrong road as we entered Heckmondwike. I mean, crematoriums are on the outskirts of towns but not usually in the next district. A postman pointed me the right way.

At last, we drove through the gates.

“It’s 10 to 12,” I said. “Just in time.”

Maria stared at me.

“The funeral isn’t until 1pm.”

“I thought it was 12.”

“I thought we were setting off early.”

We both kept our tempers as we circled the deserted crematorium and exited once more.

“What do we do now?” asked my wife.

“How about Crow Nest Museum? It’s next door.”

I told you funerals were educational.