Bella, an excellent cook, fretted on the day of Uncle Albert's funeral with the knowledge that her dear departed relation, a proud bachelor billionaire, would've have expected a grand send off. So in the centre of his garden, just a mere twenty acres of lush lawn, a marquee had been erected in readiness for his wake later that afternoon.

After Uncle Albert's coffin had been laid to rest in the family's marble mausoleum, hundreds of mourners, under their breaths, wondered how an ordinary coffin of ordinary size had accomodated the incredible bulk of the deceased in such a small space? But no one dared to address that question to Bella.

At 3.30pm Bella, accompanied by her husband, Reginald, arrived back at The Lodge issuing instructions to the head caterer of Yum Yums that she would continue to tend the boar she'd prepared, the previous evening, now wrapped in foil and, with the help of her husband, placed on a revolving spit which now turned lazily over a
log fire.

When the mourners descended, they gathered around the roasting boar, marvelling at the delicious aroma of herbs and garlic teasing their twitching nostrils, causing saliva to dribble from their lips.

One guest remarked quietly to another that surely the foil should be removed. Bella, overhearing the comment, retorted briskly that her herbs and spices must infuse well into the meat. A famous food critic looked doubtful. Bella caught his look and went on to state, that the foil would be removed only at the correct time to allow the boar's skin to form the most superb crackling they'd all wish to eat.

Uncle Albert's friend, Francois Duvent,a cordon bleu chef, owner of a string of restaurants, took a step back from the debate. No one, even experts, dared disagree with the hostess who considered herself ten notches above Delia Smith.

Then sighing with satisfaction, Bella whispered to her ever anxious husband standing by her side, 'Do stop fidgeting, darling. How many times did Uncle Albert insist that his body should not be wasted?'

Nervously casting a meek smile at his wife, Reginald glanced over to Uncle Albert's favourite Acacia tree where his limbs and head, last evening, had been ceremoniously buried. Then opening his mouth to contradict, shut it again, not daring to argue the point that Bella's departed uncle had specified that his body was to be donated to Medical Science and not stuck on a spit.