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Memory coursework, on grandad. usually first piece of coursework

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My memory. The phone began its' hideous crying of a polyphonic symphony combined with the original 'ring ring' the repetitive drone angered me, I had just wrestled the television remote from my vulture of a sister and I knew leaving my safe hold of the sofa would result in an almost definite return to the dreaded Disney channel and its' she devil leader; Hannah Montana. I whined, and stomped into the hall to silence the screaming telephone. "Hello?" I grunted, a silence followed, "Anybody there? Right I'm hanging up now mr cold caller man." I moved the receiver from my ear and put it on its' journey back down to the handset, a hideous scream erupted from the receiver. "DAISY WRIGHT WHEN ARE YOU GOING TO LEARN TO ANSWER THIS PHONE PROPERLY? DO YOU ANSWER THE PHONE TO EVERYONE LIKE THAT?" I had a good mind to continue with putting the phone down and returning to the television. But I didn't I dragged to phone back up to my ear and said as best I could: "Hello nana terry, how are you today?" "Where is your father?" returned the harsh, cold, old voice. "Don't know, does it matter? Cant you call back in like a few days?" ...read more.


My face grew red as my family scowled at me. I pulled myself up and stood by the side of the car waiting to know what to do. No one seemed to talk any louder than a whisper and I couldn't hear a word, but as my family nodded with agreement I knew I was soon to be awkwardly embarrassed again. My dad stood by the end of a car about ten meters away, dare I go to see what to do. Those ten meters felt like a hundred meters to me, with so many people there, yet I couldn't hear a word. I looked up, a medium sized building was dwarfed by a giant chimney, the chimney's shadow covered, the awaiting mourners, the mourners were talking to each other, sombre conversations, remembering old times, meeting friends they hadn't seen in years. They began to follow each other into the crematorium. At the same time the third car arrived, we all began to move into the brick chapel. As we entered my nerves began to subside, the building was nice, there was comfy seats and a small stage with a long table going into a red curtain. Nowhere near as daunting or scary as I had imagined the chapel to be. ...read more.


I got up, legs shaking. "Don't stack it." I said to myself I carefully treaded up the carpet isle. Each footstep felt like a lead weight on my foot, each step my brain begging me to turn around and run back to my seat. I reached the podium and placed the crinkled, sweaty piece of paper I had had clasped in my hand on the page holder. My eyes faced the guests. There seemed thousands of them, each one of them silently looking at me, ever waiting approval. I began the poem my heart thumped, like a metronome. My hands sweated and I fiddled with my sleeves, as you would do as a young child. I read out the words, making sure not to trip over them, I pronounced each word as if it was a life or death order, with preciseness and punctuation I began the second verse. I began to relax. I looked around; the stern faces that had looked at me a minute before were now replaced with smiles. People's faces weren't filled with disapproving horror as I had imagined but instead upside down frowns. The words come out easier, like a song. I finish and step down from the podium. And my eyes cast upon the coffin, "Goodbye Granddad." I whispered to myself before continuing on to my seat. ...read more.

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