WE'VE probably all had to bury someone by now.

And that means finding out how expensive it is.

Indeed, if you discount bread, milk, Greggs etc, everything is ridiculously expensive.

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Every new hobby or object you fancy stymies you from the off with its price. "I'd like to sail the ocean wave in a yacht.

"Ah, here'e one for sale. Ye gods! I didn't know there was that much money in the world."

Not that burying people is a hobby. The price puts paid to that idea. It's even more galling that costs vary across the county, in a "postcode lottery", because of varying council costs.

Many people will be moving to East Renfrewshire now, as it has a special offer of just £715, whereas you'd have to put in a fair bit of overtime in East Dunbartonshire, which sticks its hand out for £2716.

And that's before you factor in the undertakers and coffin which, take it from me, make your eyes water and your wallet squeal.

Cremation is cheaper than burial but, whichever option you go for, by the time you've ordered the wee sausage rolls you're probably dead set for around four grand.

I think that's what the last one cost me and I don't do things with knobs on, though I did reluctantly concede handles for the coffin.

Occasionally, my thoughts turn to my own funeral.

I haven't set anything aside yet, as I'm confident genetic research will sort out all that death nonsense soon. So I might as well spend the cash on chocolate now.

I wouldn't want a ceremony anyway. I hate being the centre of attention. Several times, I've failed to show for events designed for my benefit.

There's no way I'm going to my own funeral.

You say: "What'll it matter? You'll be deid." I ken that. But it still gives me the willies. I'm bound to blush, even if they've given me an alabaster coupon.

I never threw a party in my life, so why start now? If you must grieve, treat yourself to a wee pie, think a couple of nice thoughts, then get off my case.

Consider the money you'll all save. There's the problem of the corpse, of course.

I don't fancy being incinerated — painful! — so just bung me in a black plastic bag and bury me under a tree. Go to Lidl.

Their bags are to die for.