Tumble that left me in grave trouble ...

MY caREER as a funeral assistant in the Seventies had a memorable start — i slid half into the grave with a coffin resting on top of me. if a gravedigger does his job properly, the top and sides of the grave are neat, with wooden boards edging it. Unfortunately, the idiot with the spade had rushed it — and forgotten the wooden boards. and it had been raining. Four of us carried the coffin to the graveside. it was still raining, the mood was sombre. The coffin was laid by the grave, webbing passed through the handles and we started to lower it gently, something the others had done many times before. Then the ground beneath me started to crumble. My legs went, but the other three remained standing. all the weight transferred to my side, as i gently disappeared down the grave’s edge until the coffin was wedged across me. it was agonising, but my training told me not to make a sound, to rely on colleagues to rescue me. They didn’t. They were convulsed with laughter, and it was contagious. The clergyman laughed, the family laughed. The gravedigger sheltering behind a tree laughed. i didn’t join in. it was a good minute before my colleagues gingerly removed the coffin. i brushed myself down and we then successfully lowered the coffin. The gravedigger and i privately exchanged almost amusing words afterwards. Harry pope, Eastbourne, E Sussex.