My American guest kept telling me he was going to call an Uber and I could not persuade him that no Uber was going to appear in the wilds of West Cork. I assured him that the only taxi service I knew of was the local funeral director.
‘What? Will I have to go in a hearse?’ said the chap from Philadelphia, laughing. I agreed it was quirky, but the funeral director really was the only taxi. ‘I’ll take you dead or alive’ is his unofficial slogan.
The American laughed and laughed and texted his sons back in Philly to tell them the joke. It’s no joke, I thought, as I dialled the funeral home. The old boy answered after about 15 rings and asked me what I wanted in an accent so thick I could barely make out what he was saying. Having never rung him for a taxi – or indeed a funeral – I asked if this was the right number for the taxi.
‘No!’ he said. ‘No, no, not this number no.’ I apologised profusely but asked if he could do a taxi. ‘I’ve got to go to mass,’ he said. ‘Then I’ve got two burials.’ I asked about the rest of the week. ‘I’ve got two burials tomorrow…,’ he said. And he ran on about the number of burials he had each day all week until I thought he was going to start telling me who would be dying the week after.
‘You ring me Tueshday and I’ll see what I can do,’ he said. ‘And what number should I ring on?’ I asked.
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