‘I’m not trying to be morbid, just practical’: Fran Whiting’s funeral request

Now, hopefully I am not going anywhere for some time, but when I do shuffle off this mortal coil, I am going to put something very clearly in my will, writes Frances Whiting.

Fran Whiting has a specific funeral request.

Now, hopefully I am not going anywhere for some time, but when I do shuffle off this mortal coil, as we all eventually must, I am going to put something very clearly in my will.

And that is that someone immediately telegraphs Colin Firth to notify him of my passing, along with the words “You had your chance.”

But apart from that, I do have one very specific request, and it is this – that under no circumstances whatsoever are either of my children allowed anywhere near the photos chosen to accompany either my funeral service booklet. Nor are they allowed to select any photos for montage shown at the service itself.

These montages, usually accompanied by some sort of appropriate piece of music – “I Did It My Way” is apparently always a crowd favourite – are meant to reflect the recently departed person’s life.

They are a visual love letter, and usually the photos themselves are highly flattering, showing the person’s best angle, best outfits, best hair with the best lighting and perhaps a little bit of soft filtering.

Frances Whiting. Photo: David Kelly

This is the opposite of the sorts of photos my children like to take relentlessly of me on their phones. Do not ask me why, but they find it endlessly amusing to take pictures of me on their phones in the least flattering moments possible – when I have just woken up, putting the bins out, after I have had my wisdom teeth out, falling asleep in front of the television with a tiny bit of dribble coming out of the side of my mouth.

If I look terrible, they are there to record it, and if I don’t look terrible, they will put some sort of filter on their phone to render me hideous.

Their current favourite is one which makes my forehead absolutely enormous, while the rest of my face is disproportionately small. They love that one – it gives them hours of viewing pleasure.

They also like using filters that make me look like a baby, like I have devil’s horns, moving googly eyes on stalks, or a horse. The fact is, my children are phone photo bullies. And it’s not just me, I asked my girlfriends if their teenage and early twenties offspring also do this, and they all said yes.

One of them said she has taken to hiding in the pantry from her children, although to be fair she also said she does this just as a general rule, not just when they have phones in their hands.

Another one said regular walks through her own home with her fingers splayed across her face to ruin any potential photo opportunity, just in case.

“It’s like having the paparazzi permanently camped out in my living room”, she said, “just waiting to pounce”.

My son’s and daughter’s phones are currently overflowing with pictures of me with either spinach on my teeth, twigs in my hair or an expression on my face like I have just caught my finger in an electrical socket.

I do not wish for any of these photos to be shown publicly, but most especially as they are carrying the casket out. I am not trying to be morbid, or morose, I am simply trying to be practical.

Also for the record, song wise I would like “Thunderstruck” by ACDC. Please see ‘Fran Loves’.

Fran Loves

The Netflix documentary series “America’s Sweethearts”, which chronicles the behind the scenes auditions to become Dallas Cowgirl Cheerleaders. And yes, like many other delusional viewers out there, I do believe I could perform the “Thunderstruck” entrance dance.

Originally published as ‘I’m not trying to be morbid, just practical’: Fran Whiting’s funeral request