Hilary Fannin: Bilious feelings of rebellion bubble up during the royal funeral. So I turn to a far wiser monarch

It occurred to me to mark the occasion of the late Queen Elizabeth II’s funeral by buying an apple slice and eating it in front of the television while watching the pageantry. This is not something I say lightly; normally I’d stay well away.

Deeply irritated by the contagion of grief surrounding the death of Diana, princess of Wales, 25 years ago, I spent the day of her funeral pushing my toddler around town in his buggy to buy him shoes. Bamboozled when I discovered that many shops in Dublin had closed early, I stomped around St Stephen’s Green with nary a crust for the duckies but determined not to be sucked into viewing what I perceived as a mawkish and grisly spectacle.

[ Queen Elizabeth’s funeral on TV: There is a degree of culture shock watching Britain grieve ]

On the morning that Diana’s death was announced I’d actually woken up in the British capital, in my mother-in-law’s west London home. A couple of hours later, waiting for the bus to Heathrow, I’d watched with growing bewilderment the hordes of people arriving at Kensington Gardens, clutching cellophane-wrapped forecourt bouquets in one hand and crumpled tissues in the other. Feasting on the princess’s life was, I reckoned, bad enough, but to gorge on her death felt macabre and animalistic.

I seem to feel less pressure these days to prove my royal intolerance, and found myself interested enough in the funereal busby show to move the cat off the armchair and eat the apple slice out of its bag.

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I’d already missed the stirring singing in Westminster Abbey, but I spent a while marvelling at the mounted cavalry’s control of their frisky rides and was impressed by the perspicacity of the queen’s horse, Emma, dolefully watching the cortege from the sidelines. And as the procession arrived outside St George’s Chapel, at Windsor Castle, it was vaguely heartwarming to see the monarch’s surviving corgis, Sandy and Muick, sitting on the steps, awaiting the arrival of their late owner’s coffin.

In the end, however, bilious feelings of rebellion against the hierarchical madness of it all began to bubble up, and I switched off the box and thought about cleaning the windows. (That low autumn sun reveals hidden fingerprints faster than a crime-scene investigator with a camel-hair dusting brush.)

The main attraction, it’s claimed, of a living funeral, where you listen to your own eulogy and buy drinks for a lot of people you haven’t seen in years, is that you get to hear what people have to say about you. Man, the pressure

I had funerals on the brain nevertheless, so I thought to consult my own monarch of all that life throws up, Queen Gwyneth of Goopdom, whose random decrees unfailingly manage to make this chaotic world even more disorientating.

Goop, Paltrow’s online lifestyle publication (the same one that advises sticking yoni eggs where the sun don’t shine and which peddles vagina-scented candles and dildos that look like firemen) didn’t let me down, bending my mind this time with an article about “living funerals”.

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The main attraction, it’s claimed, of these all-singing, all-dancing affairs, where you listen to your own eulogy, eat your own goujons and chips, buy drinks for a lot of people you haven’t seen in years and then quietly sort out the bill with the hotel manager, is that you get to hear what people have to say about you. Suggestions for a successful living funeral include a get-together in the park to have a barbecue. (The folk behind the movement are doubtless Californian, with absolutely no concept of Irish weather.) One is also encouraged to hire a photographer and have a book of living condolences available for your loved ones to write messages in. Man, the pressure.

People who take part in living funerals are left with no regrets, with nothing left unsaid. I dunno. It’s hard enough for most of us to get it together to meet someone for a pint even when we’re in the whole of our health

An account of one of these events said that later in the evening (when the cocktail sausages had been eaten and Aunt Mabel scraped off the floor) the guests sat down one by one to tell the non-corpse/party host what he meant to them, and he got the chance to do the same. Apparently it’s called closure, although it should also be known as opening up a can of worms.

It is the norm, the article acknowledges, to wait until after a person is dead to say goodbye, to put them in a wooden box and lower them into the ground. But, it argues, why not take advantage of the time we have with someone while they are still alive? The piece further suggests that people who take part in living funerals and grieve before the death are left with no regrets, with nothing left unsaid.

I dunno, mate. It’s hard enough for most of us to get it together to meet someone for a pint even when we’re in the whole of our health. One thing’s for sure, though: if the queen had gone the Goop route she’d have been pretty damn impressed by the turnout.