I was sitting at the bar in my place drinking a beer, with a female friend. She sighed and ordered herself a shot of the herbal cordial St Hallvord Likør. An unusual choice of drink, it had to be said. She confided that was in honour of a friend of hers, whom she had just heard had died. “That was his drink. There’s no-one who is going to come in here and drink it now,” these facts coming mournfully.
Then she had the idea that all must share in this drinking tribute! She declared that she would pay for the entire bottle, and friends of the deceased could come here and pay their respects by having shots in his memory.
A noble plan. Then came the phone call. One of these mourning friends had walked into another bar to see only one other customer in the place. Did his eyes deceive him? It was none other than the deceased man, sitting on a high stool.
What had happened was that someone with the same first name and same last name as him, who worked in the same job (like that was ever going to be a good idea), had died. “I’m not dead!” she could hear him say in the background. What could she say?
That they could have some St Hallvard on her anyway: an apology to the living.