Agnes Gribble's Post-Mortem Petunia Predicament

Agnes Gribble, at 87, wasn't *afraid* of death. She was, however, deeply concerned with its aesthetics. Her last will and testament, updated weekly, contained more footnotes than a critical edition of Shakespeare. "No 'Amazing Grace'!" she'd shriek at her bewildered solicitor. "It's far too... *common*. I prefer a rousing rendition of 'Always Look on the Bright Side of Life', preferably sung by a moderately in-tune kazoo quartet.

Her biggest project, though, was her coffin. Not for her a plain pine box. Agnes had commissioned a bespoke, fully-upholstered, velvet-lined casket, complete with a built-in refrigerated compartment for her prize-winning petunias – "They die so easily," she’d explained, "and they simply must be presentable for the viewing." The lid even had a small, discreet window, allowing her to 'supervise' proceedings from beyond the veil. "Just in case," she'd winked, "they try to skimp on the canapés." Her greatest fear wasn't dying; it was a poorly catered wake. And frankly, the thought of being laid to rest without her best petunias just *wilting*? Unthinkable. The petunias, she insisted, had worked harder than any of her distant relatives, and deserved prime seating.