Pav’s Patch: Hot off the press, my trip to the crem

A FEW weeks ago, I ended up in a place I never expected to visit. Well, not for around 30 years, anyway.

I refer to the back room at the crematorium. I won’t go into the reasons I was there, but when I was taken through a little door I thought I was going into an office — not the place with the ovens.

To make matters even more interesting, or is that unsettling, I found myself looking outwards, into the crem itself. I was actually on the other side of the curtain and, while I suppose it stands to reason that coffins hardly float heavenward once they disappear from view, it was a very strange feeling to see one dragged along the rollers, placed on a trolley, and stored in a corner ready for its turn.

But at least it exploded one myth. People aren’t tipped out of the coffins, which are then reused. There just isn’t space. The oven room is quite a cramped place and, dare I say, rather hot.

So, as I sweated, and kept an eye on the 77-year-old Mr Bloggs, trying not to wonder what he had looked like or why he died, I tried to concentrate on a very nice gentleman who took a real pride in explaining how the furnace works. In fact he purred about it as though he was describing a vintage sports car.

Meanwhile, the cemetery staff went about their jobs very matter-of-factly. “Oi Mike,” called one of them, peering through a spyhole. “Have a look in here, you can make out the skull.” I politely declined, flicked a quick glance at Mr Bloggs in the corner, swallowed hard, and tried to shuffle away.

No luck. I was made to look into the adjoining furnace but all I could see was ash. It might have been someone’s sideboard on bonfire night.

Anyway, I learned that people are burned at something like 850C. The ashes are then allowed to drop into a lower compartment to cool. And all the time, name tags are being swapped around to make sure that you only get your own ashes so to speak.

The purring gentlemen was quite indignant when I asked him if it was true that you just get a shovelful of whatever ash is lying around. He insisted that the staff go to great lengths to ensure that you only get what you’re entitled to.

The posh name for the ash is calcite. If you’re buried, you take 500 years to turn to calcite. In the crem, it happens in a matter of minutes.

Sweet dreams.