Dad.

Happy Days. Mom and Dad.

We received a frantic call from the funeral home just a few days before my father's funeral service. They had, they told us, dressed him in his suit, as instructed. However, they could not locate his trousers.

If my sister and I were comic book characters, our surprise would have been marked with bold exclamation marks above our heads. Several, in fact.

We tried to work this thing out. Greg my (ex) brother-in-law (and my sister's current boyfriend - don't ask, long story) had delivered the suit to Thom Kyte himself. He assured us that all items of clothing were present and accounted for.

Not so much, I thought. Missing a tie or his jacket - maybe. But trousers?

In a rush, my sister and I worked out his trouser size from the other trousers still in his cupboard and then dashed to the Men's Department of Woolworths to find a pair in the matching colour and fabric as the rest of the suit.

We were lucky, and we purchased the last pair of trousers my father would ever wear before speeding down the highway to the funeral home to deliver them.

Trousers delivered, we returned home for some (strong, alcoholic) refreshment and congratulations all round on our success at averting a rather embarrassing situation. Even though it was to be a closed casket, we didn't think it dignified to allow my father to wander into the afterlife in his good suit, with his good tie and underpants.

As we sipped at our drinks, I noticed something odd hanging on the hatstand. Indeed, it was the original pair of trousers my father was to be buried in.

I like to think that somehow, from beyond the (almost) grave, my father's quirky sense of humour had reached out to touch us at such a difficult and traumatic time.

After we were done giggling, we toasted the old man. And his new pair of trousers.