When I go to heaven (or wherever), I hope to go like Joey. One minute he was alive and well - or so it seemed - the next he was dead.

It was quick, it was peaceful and half an hour later we'd given him a decent burial.

Until I saw Joey die I'd never seen anyone or anything quite literally fall off their perch.

But that's exactly what Joey did - he swayed, he keeled over and then lay still at the bottom of his cage.

"We'd better make sure he's dead," I told my aunt, who had owned him for 15 years, which is quite a marathon stretch for a cockatiel.

"He's definitely dead," she said, putting her hand into the cage and gently stroking his stomach. Ten minutes earlier he'd bitten the very same fingers when she'd put her hand in to change his drinking water.

"I still think we should double check," I said. "After all, he's shown no sign of illness."

In fact the bird had been chirruping and whistling so loudly during the day that I'd been tempted to wring its neck. Now, given the current situation, the fact I'd entertained such a thought made me feel guilty.

"How about holding his mirror under his beak to check for signs of breathing?" I said. "He's got nostrils hasn't he?"

My aunt gave me a look I've often seen on the face of her sister, The Mother. It's a combination of exasperation and contempt.

"Don't be so silly," she said. "He's died of old age, it's as simple as that. You could help by looking for a box while I tidy him up."

"Box?" I said. "Oh, you mean a box to bury him in. You're not going to bury him straight away are you?"

"Well I wasn't planning on having a lying-in-state," said my aunt, lifting the little, and presumably already stiffening, body onto the dining room table.

So I went to look for a box or carton in which to lay Joey to rest.

Dried cat food boxes were thought, understandably, to be an insensitive choice, as were empty cornflake and muesli packets.

Now if Joey had been a budgie it would have been far easier to find him a suitable 'coffin'.

He would have fitted snugly into an empty Kleenex tissue box but, being a cockatiel, his long tail feathers made this a physical impossibility.

"Perhaps we could trim them?" I suggested. Not a good idea - and not a good idea to mention it either.

"Ron!" said my aunt suddenly. "I'll ask Ron."

Ron? Who he? Ah yes, Ron, my aunt's elderly neighbour who often helps out with small tasks such as watering her hanging baskets and retrieving dead (wild) birds from her cat's jaws . . . but that's another story.

My aunt returned from Ron's carrying a box; it was one of those large Kleenex man-size tissue boxes.

The box was a perfect fit for Joey. Ron had even left some tissues inside to pack around the bird's body.

A bit of cotton wool, cling film and Sellotape completed the job and then it was R.I.P Joey.

Yet I still felt uneasy. "You don't think he might just have been taking a nap . . .?" I asked my aunt.

"Careful," said a warning voice from somewhere inside my head. "I think you've ruffled enough feathers for one day."