Your article on funerals was interesting; the more we’re exposed to all the options available at death, the better (Ditch the hearse, bring the kids, have a picnic: an alternative undertaker’s tips for a better funeral, 19 October). But it paints a binary picture. I’m a funeral celebrant. My first was at Sharpham Meadow natural burial ground, mentioned in the piece. It was slightly chaotic, with songs, spontaneous tributes and a faulty portable speaker. Afterwards, a mourner pressed an unlit fag into the grave’s earth and poured cider on it.
For my second, a shy, heartbroken woman told me very little about her mum, from whom she’d never spent a day apart. The family was sparse, the crematorium nearly empty. But there was a story: her mum grew up in Spain, was made homeless by the fascists in the civil war, had been thrown out of church by a priest for having no shoes, so hated organised religion but had a strong faith (which I was expected to – and did – acknowledge).
