DEATH is such a selfish, one-way affair. It's all right for the dear departed, they swan off without a care in the world.

They have time on their hands, so all they have to do is take a few music lessons and start plucking a harp with the angels on a nice, fluffy cloud - or dabbling in a bit of debauchery down under, despite the temperature.

They don't have to worry about the mortgage, whether the car is taxed, whether the cat's out for the night or even missing Coronation Street.

They leave the rest of us with the mopping up. They are not there to see all the tears, the sleepless nights, the fretting.

They don't have to search for ancient birth certificates, cope with death certificates, funeral arrangements, and describing the person's life in a few paragraphs for the caring clergyman's eulogy.

They don't have to face the tearful agony of sorting through personal possessions - each one has a heart-tugging memory - and deciding which to throw out, which to give to the charity shops, or which to keep as a permanent memento of a loved one.

Dying is not a pleasant affair for the dying either. But they don't have to sit beside a struggling body, watching laboured breathing, wondering - and secretly and guiltily hoping, because it would be best all round - if each breath will be the last.

They don't have the relentless, daily visits to the hospital, feeding a fortune into the hospital parking meters (it's crazy, isn't it?) or waiting for a call in the night to say, "You had better come in now, things have deteriorated".

And the funeral. You have to wear black when it's really a cool, fashion colour. It's not a drab, down-in-the-mouth medal of mourning.

You have to be solemn when you want to giggle, like you do in all stressful situations when the pressure gets to be too much. Remember when the headmaster, in assembly, used to announce thefts from the locker rooms? You would blush, try unsuccessfully to suppress a little giggle, and then slump down convinced everyone thought you were the guilty thief even though you had been nowhere near the place.

After the death of a near one, you also have to put up with relatives you see only once in a blue, well, funeral, who tell you: "You've grown (fat or thin or tall) since the last time I saw you." Well it was ten years ago, at Uncle Dick's dirge, and you were knocking back the sherry, Aunt Mary.

Worst of all, you have to accept the sympathy of friends and colleagues. Just when you had cried yourself dry, sniffed back the sobs, found new reserves of strength and decided you can face the world, someone just has to call, or come up and say: "I'm SO, SO sorry about so-and-so..."

So the lip starts to quiver, the eyes start to leak and you babble your 'thanks' and your rehearsed "well, it was for the best" response, trying hard to look upset and solemn and adopt your I'm In Mourning pose.

So much rests in appearances. You can be sad, down at heart and still love the person who has gone. But to others, you have to prove it. You are not allowed to laugh or attempt to be normal.

Despite the fact that the wee, small hours are a nightmare, the rest of the day when you want to perk up has to be also miserable for the sake of appearances.

Yet the person who has died has to put up with none of this. Come back, all is not forgiven. Look what you've left me with.

The other thing about the selfishness of death is where are they when you need them? Weeks or months later, when you think you are well over it, a smell, a sound will bring back a memory when you are least expecting it.

"Something special or funny or sad happened to me today. I must ring dad and tell him about it." For that fleeting second you forget he has passed away. And then you are left feeling foolish and empty, because you can never ring him again.

My dad has just been mercifully released after serving a life sentence. His only crime was old age and infirmity. Bye dad. Miss you.

Updated: 11:20 Tuesday, March 09, 2004