I should say I have come to know this place and become familiar with the unfamiliar, but I still shirk at the sight of it. “Go in,” they yell at me. “How can she be so squeamish?” They say to each other. “What could possibly happen to her that’s worse than death?”

The caravan confronts me. Inside is full of water: murky water. Dirty plates and pans float inexplicably like drowned sailors. Bits of half chewed food swim to the surface. Dead black beetles collide aimlessly. The stench reaches my nostrils and I want to be sick, but this luxury is not available to me. I pluck the depths of my memory and pick out the experience, now dusty, forgotten, useless, but I cannot throw up. I mimic the gagging actions, my body thrusting back and forth, desperate for the trickle of juice. My body is too stiff, my gullet too shrunken, my belly too shrivelled, its contents packed and preserved for eternity. All those years of practicing at parties did me no good then, and are no good to me now.

Nothing has prepared me for the frustrations of death. Yes, I am dead. You must have noticed, for even though I am still dazzlingly attractive, you have probably guessed by my hollow cheeks, my vacant expression and yes, I did not want to mention it, the eye-ball splitting stench that follows me everywhere like a jealous lover. Death has a funny way of cramping your style. Here I am, dressed in an erotic pink evening gown, my hair up and perfumed and yet I know I look like a dead woman. Pale. Red sunken eyes. Icy, blue swollen lips. Wild, ropey strands. Nostrils flaring uncontrollably. I’m walking around, the spasms in my stomach try to bring up the last vestiges of my life’s activities, but nothing comes. So, instead of looking my usual elegant self, the one I used to admire in the mirror, I look like a head bopping punk rocker in the throws of a convulsion. The empty spasms, fast and furious, are easily mistaken for a dance sequence I would have killed for in the life I have left behind. Yes, death does have a way of cramping your style. I may as well be wrapped up in a potato sack for all the good this dress does me. And it cost me a fortune. Not that any of that matters any more, a fortune is only a fortune if you are still alive, otherwise it’s just another piece of luggage to lug around for all eternity. This dress, beautiful, elegant and charming though it is, accentuates my clumsiness and a dress should never compete with the person it is clothing. I have no grace, no style, no coordination. If I wasn’t dead already, I would be black and blue from top to toe, reeling from the bumps and bruises that I seem able to inflict so casually on myself. I am the ‘Thing that goes bump in the night’, for Death is discourteous? Enough to bring with it an unexpected helping of clumsiness. On the plus side though, black and blue would certainly have been better than this deathly pale, you know, the colour that doesn’t go with anything. My make-up is probably running as it always does, and I walk around with my mashed potato face dripping mascara like gravy stains. Well, no one told me I was dressing for eternity. No-one told me this dress was forever, that these six inch heels would go on killing my feet even after I was dead.

To tell you the truth, I don’t really know what I look like. We have no reflectors here, and even if we did, one look would probably annihilate all matter, for I am sure, we are not reflector friendly, we simply do not hold together in the same way.