Would the real Dy Barnett please, um, er, stand up?

We get to St John’s Toorak, finding a parking space directly outside. As we walk in, we are handed an Order of Service and I notice that there seemed to be a 20 year age gap between this woman and my mum. A university lecturer who is 20 years younger than her student? I hold up the picture on the front of the Order of Service.

“Is that her?”

“Yes, yes, that’s her,” says mum.

“How old is she, mum?”

“Oh, my age.”

We walk in and find a seat. Mum sits on the isle and I sit one seat in. Men in dark suits, women in their best afternoon dresses congregate, before they take their seats.

“So, how do you know this woman?

“Oh,” Lottie brightens up at the recollection, “when I lived in London, Dy and her husband lived in Switzerland and I stayed with them often. They were very generous to me.”

I thought she was Lottie's university lecturer, even that seems to have changed. I forgot momentarily, I thought she'd correct me.

“Mum, according to this,” holding the Order of Service up as evidence, as if, I suspected, I needed it. “Dy was between 10 and 15 years old when you lived in Europe.”

“Oh,” continues Lottie undeterred. “She drove a car and everything.”

Everyone had arrived, the priest enters indicating the show was about to start.

“Who is her husband?”

"Peter. Peter is her husband."

As it turned out, this woman’s husband’s name is Peter.

"What happened to him?"

“He died, darling.”The priest looks like every other deluded man who ever put on a frock... cassock, with that same pinch-face, sad look that they all have.

“Welcome, blah, blah, blah. Peter, Dy’s husband, would like to speak first.”

I look at Lottie. She looks at me.

“Did they have any children?”

“He was married before and he has a son.”

“No other children?”

“No, dear.”

The priest stands again. “The first dedication will be read by Dy’s daughter Sarah followed by Dy’s other daughter Amanda.”

“Be funny if we were at the wrong funeral,” Lottie offers. We both laugh.

I’m thinking about how many other small stories are being played out at Dy Barnett’s funeral. I wonder if Dy had a sense of humour, as I know I’d be laughing at mum and me, if I was her.

Sarah says something about when her parents were married, which was some fifteen years after my mother lived overseas.

I didn’t need any more evidence. I laugh.

It is amusing. Funny. Make a good story. Be voyeur and drink in all of the virginal knowledge. A complete story offered up. It's like a big secret that only Lottie and I are in on.

The first hymn starts up. Lottie asks me if I don’t know the words when she looks over to see me mute. I respond by singing the arse off Immortal Invisible, my years as a choir boy have often held me in good stead.

The hymn finishes and I lean over to Lottie and say, “Let’s go.”

She gets that steely look in her eye, which I hadn’t seen since childhood and refuses. “It would be rude.” She’s on the isle and moves to block my exit.

“What?” Incredulous!

“I’m not doing that,” she says. “I could never be so rude as to walk out of someone's funeral.”

"Someone you know..."

We all sit. Amanda gets up, who clearly had issues with her looks growing up, as she mentions it several times. So bad was the picture she painted, that I was left gazing at a now beautiful woman thinking to myself, You must have knocked them dead at class reunions.

But, we’ve missed out exit point. More dedications. Then the sermon.

I wasn't thinking it was nearly as amusing, as I first did, after Lottie's refusal to leave. Then the priest launches into all that Christian mumbo jumbo, the reasons for people still believing in it completely elude me. Just listen to a priest next time you have a chance, the stuff he sprouts is on the same believability level as Lord of the Rings, or Harry Potter.

The priest's near final words to his sermon are something like the following,

“Those who live with Jesus love will go on to live in the eternal light. Those who do not live with Jesus love will not.”

Rubbish! That was enough for me.

“You are even making me listen to this nonsense.”

Lottie smiles, as best she could, under the circumstances.

I am getting out. I have a good mind to walk out in the middle of the prayers, which would have mortified Lottie, but settle myself with the thought, this is someone’s funeral, even if you don’t know them, keep your calm and your dignity, Christian.

To top things off, as if they needed that, guess who the final song was by? The only person who is banned from ever being played in my house, ever! I knew David would get a laugh. Celine Dion, Because You Love Me. I wasn't staying for that.

I take Lottie by the shoulder and push her back gently.

“I’ll see you outside.” At which point, I step passed her and head for the door.

Head up, forward like a Galleon, as Joyce Grenfell would have insisted.

Lottie does know a Dorothy Barnett, Dy's real name, who, amazingly, is married to a Peter, just not this couple.

Dy, the one we don’t know, sounded like a nice person who had an interesting life. She sounded as though I would have liked her. She loved her kids, you could hear it in the way they spoke about her. She seemed like she had it all, but was struck down by a rare illness, I imagine, when she had everything to live for. Dy, it was, actually, fascinating to listen to your life. In your honour...

I call Mark & Luke, as I'm waiting for the service to end and we all have a laugh. They are incredulous. "You have to be shitting me," says Luke.

I collect Lottie, as she is coming out of the church. "I suppose you want to head back to the house for tea and sandwiches?" I say, as I take her arm.

We both laugh, as we head for the car.

Lottie's final words were that she enjoyed the funeral. She found it, just, fascinating.

"Well, there are several churches within walking distance of your house," I say. "You could toddle off to a funeral a day and be continually fascinated."