Can you hear me, Major Tom?

Almost every day at either lunch or recess the head of the English department at the school I'm on prac at now will come staggering into the staffroom and, overhearing a conversation, will be reminded of a story from her past that she simply must interrupt you to tell and is every bit as amusing as she claims it will be.

Today she wafted in as my supervisor and I were talking about kayaking.

"Oh that reminds me of a story about the one and only time I went kayaking. I'll have to tell you. It really is quite amusing."

It seems her husband was mad keen on kayaking and, deciding that he needed to get his wife involved, he bought her a kayak. One morning they launched the boats in the river at North Fremantle, where the water is always so clear and blue. This day was particularly bright and sunny and the water was particularly sparkling. Plenty of people were out enjoying the sunshine and the slight breeze. The bit of beach they were on was particularly popular, it seems. Our narrator noticed to one side of her a group of people who all seemed to be watching her commence her maiden voyage - just curious onlookers she supposed, laughing at the old biddy. Although most of her mental effort was going into staying balanced and mastering her first few wobbly paddles she did, nevertheless, have the presence of mind to notice that the usually pristine water was marred by a grey film, through which she was gliding. She turned her craft around to wave to her husband - "Look at me!" - and it was then she realised that the grey film and the fascinated onlookers were all part of the same event: she had ploughed her kayak right through some dear departed (and cremated) soul's ashes, only minutes before committed to the water.

Not surprisingly, she kept on paddling and didn't look back. Which, I suspect, is a kind of meta-statement for this grand dame's life.