Nobly this morning I cycled down to the village to help plant daffodils in weather that alternated between grim and merely unpleasant.
Due to my post-operative status I wasn’t allowed anywhere near a spade (I did try), meaning that, while people a good twenty years my senior laboured over the stony soil, I was just swanning after them placing the bulbs in the holes they had dug. As I was making sure they were all (mostly) pointy side up, I noticed that some of the holes were beautifully neat and deep and sharply squared off.
‘Ah well, those will be Colin’s,’ somebody said. ‘He used to be the gravedigger, you know.’
I suppose, at least this will be one burial where the occupants are pretty much guaranteed to rise again.