Dying in public

I saw a man collapse in Tesco the other night. He had a suitable rabble of helpers staring agog at him, including a nurse, so I thought it was best if I carried on my way.

I would hate to go like that, slumped on a shiny supermarket floor surrounded by morons with my last vision of humanity being a slightly overweight woman trying to work out which final yogurt she should choose to make up the three for a pound offer.

If I had to die in a public place, I would want it to be a massive heart attack at a football match.

Ideally, it would involve me clutching my chest in row Z before rolling down the steps in a dramatic scene just as the ball had gone out of the play. This would lead to the whole stand taking to their feet to witness the drama and a collective murmur of gossip would ring in my ears as I faded away.

Maybe they would name a seat after in my honour. Possibly have a minute’s silence of remembrance before there next home match and a drunk away fan would shout something out and then a chorus of boos would break out in disgust and ruin the moment. Yeah, that would be nice.