Watching &Juliet last week I was intrigued by the relationship between William Shakespeare and his wife, Anne Hathaway. The joke of Anne being left the “second-best bed” in his will was bandied around several times, and she was depicted as being rather put out – at one point, frankly enraged (a tour de force by actress Lara Denning).

Such a modest legacy has gone down in history as a damning indictment of their marriage. The idea that Mr and Mrs Shaky didn’t get on has been widely explored, debated and challenged over the years. The trouble is, there is very little hard evidence to say one way or the other whether their union was happy or acrimonious.

OK, so Shakespeare spent extended periods in the Big Smoke rubbing shoulders with royalty while his wife was stuck in Stratford raising the kids. But for all we know, she might have preferred it that way. Not every couple likes to live in each other’s pockets, and there are many who learn to live separate lives for much of the year – those who work in the armed forces or on oil rigs, for example – enjoying each other’s company when together, but relieved to return to the familiar routine when apart.

I wondered what had happened to the “best bed”, so I turned to Mr/Ms Google and found a whole heap of illuminating information. Apparently, it was common in the 17th century to bequeath a bed to a spouse or close relative. The best bed could be worth as much as a small house and was generally reserved for guests; the second-best would be the marital bed. With that in mind, Shakespeare’s gesture could be considered one of exceptional tenderness, as it was the bed they slept in, made love in – the one Anne gave birth to her children in.

Some historians claim he didn’t have to “will” Anne anything, as she would have been entitled to a chunk of his estate automatically as his widow. Shakespeare added the bed to his will shortly before he died, perhaps knowing his end was near and wanting to ensure she received an item of some personal meaning.

It might even have been an in-joke between them. When my mother’s partner died last year, his will revealed an interesting gift for a long-standing friend who had expressed a fondness for Neil Diamond’s music. “I’ll leave you my LPs,” the conversation had gone at the time – and he did.

“He never has,” the incredulous friend exclaimed when my mother informed him. We shall never know whether this bequest was made tongue-in-cheek (“That’ll make him smile”) or with genuine intent.

I wonder much the same about his choice of funeral music, which consisted of Elvis tracks with titles Funny How Time Slips Away. As a fan of the King, did he think they would be perfectly in keeping with the occasion (indeed they were) or did he allow himself a wry smile at the thought of us sobbing in the aisles (indeed we did)?

We don’t really talk much about death – it’s the kind of thing we imagine to be way off in the future rather than around the corner. In contrast, my mother is in her mid-70s and more preoccupied with her impending shuffle off this mortal coil, as Shakespeare would have it.

A forthcoming trip up north involves sorting out her will and power of attorney, a thorough clutter-clear and numerous trips to the charity shop/recycling centre.

Phone calls increasingly resemble a scene from The Royle Family. Her: “You remember Mr so-and-so?” Me: “No, sorry.” Her: “Yes, you do. Anyway, he died.”

The Other Half (OH) and I occasionally josh about musical choices for our respective funerals. He’d like Eye Level for his, partly because it evokes fond memories of a 1970s childhood, but mostly because it seems deeply, hilariously uncool now.

He has also requested Popcorn by Hot Butter, which will increase in intensity as the coffin recedes into the furnace. Assuming he predeceases me, I will follow his instructions to the letter and ensure he gets the credit for his poor taste.

In a similar vein, Daughter has chosen Hot To Go by 2020s darling Chappell Roan. I’ll be long gone by then, so someone else will have to teach the congregation the accompanying dance, not unlike YMCA.

I have no idea what I will leave to my loved ones. Maybe I could follow the example of the author Robert Louis Stevenson, who left his birthday (November 13) to a young girl dissatisfied with her own, which fell on Christmas Day.

But I’d like to request, right here, the beautiful Chamber to the Grave, a miner’s lament adapted by Cornwall-based musician Jim Carey (best known for his collaborations with Miracle and Kneehigh theatre companies). “Remember t’was my wish to have a pleasant funeral song.”