LIFE consists of many journeys – the hour-long commute to work, the 10-minute drive to the supermarket, or the seemingly never-ending 45-minute run to nowhere on that godforsaken treadmill.

Today however, I was getting an insight into a journey we all make at the very end of our lives – the journey to the unknown, the other side or, as I prefer to call it – the afterlife.

The only difference was, I was coming back.

Family tragedy, and believe me, mine certainly had our fair share throughout the years, had given me a rather unwarranted fascination with what happens after we die, prompting me to pay a visit to the Royal Berkshire Hospital’s morgue to find out why one would choose a career working with the dead, and whether a mortuary that temporarily houses 2,500 dead patients annually, really is as creepy as people might think.

The main hospital and its morgue were separated by two huge double doors and as I walked into the pathology department, the temperature instantly dropped.

Pacing myself down a small corridor, closed in by fridges either side of me, I was met by mortuary manager of six years David Ridgewell, who explained the importance of respect when working with the dead.

The 50-year-old Southcote resident said: “It’s all about dignity of care here and it’s something we take very seriously because a patient is still a patient whether they’re deceased or not.

“Sometimes we get a patient come into our care and they have no family or next of kin but I don’t believe anyone should be laid to rest without someone being present, which is why a lot of the time myself or my staff will attend their funeral.”

Mr Ridgewell, who originally began his line of work as an undertaker, worked as a production technician on the BBC’s Silent Witness before taking up his current role and said the institution gets an influx of applications when advertising a job in his department as a result of such popular forensic television programmes.

He said: “No matter how good these programmes are, they give a very distorted view of working in a mortuary.

“People think it’s all creepy and that we’re cutting up bodies in a dark basement but it’s not like that at all.”

Mr Ridgewell led me to the viewing suite, which consisted of flowers, landscape paintings and a fish tank, where formal identifications of the bodies takes place.

He said: “We’re continually trying to develop this room to get the feel just right for families because it’s a lasting image for them and, more than likely, the last image they will see when they think of their loved ones.”

In a room adjacent to the viewing suite was head pathologist Dr Suk Ghataura, who previously worked as a plastic surgeon but was prompted to change departments following a serious car accident.

The 44-year-old from Slough said: “I had a very serious car accident in 1999 when a driver who was distracted by the solar eclipse hit me. That really exposed me to pathology, and since then I’ve never looked back. It’s always been something I’ve been interested in but the trauma of the car accident really made me think about things on a greater level.”

As well as giving me an insight into his typical day, Dr Ghataura explained why post mortems are so important.

He said: “My most memorable post mortem was a young man in his 20s who ran marathons as a hobby and one day he just died very suddenly.

“His family were all shocked and kept saying how fit and healthy he was, but the post mortem revealed he had a heart murmur. When I told his mother, who originally thought he had, on the off chance, taken cocaine, she was obviously distraught but was grateful that this had been found as it encouraged the family to get themselves checked out.”

The doctor also said being a pathologist had made him more resilient to unsuspecting changes in life.

He said: “I think coming into pathology does really harden you a lot but it makes you more aware of how fragile life can really be and how easily it can all just come to an end.”

As I left the mortuary, in a daydream and haunted by the words of Dr Ghataura, a stranger grabbed my arm, saving me from stepping out in front of a car on Craven Road.

But as I nearly met my own end, I chose not to be alarmed and instead smiled to myself, having been comforted that, when my number is finally up, my family will be well taken care of in the hands of the Royal Berkshire Hospital’s pathology team.