I’ve got a bit behind with these since I got back to work. I’ve been very busy looking at spreadsheets and imagining how much fun it must be to be dead.
Anyway, more dreary suburbia. I’m sure the people here are nice. They have hopes and dreams. Sometimes they know joy. All of the hot food in the hot food cabinet in Sainsbury’s had been purchased by midday.
I made do with a cold sausage roll, which I ate hastily on my journey through Winchmore Hill, apparently “the suburb that thinks its a village”. If you live in a boring suburb that thinks it is anything other than a boring suburb I encourage you to lock your doors then burn your home to the ground.
Grovelands Park has signs up that cannot emphasise enough how little they will do to accomodate you. They will not grit. You are not worth grit. Slip and fall. See if they care.
I now learn that the big house at one end of the park a) contains an octagonal dining room designed to make you feel like you are inside a bird cage and b) is The Priory what you have to go to if you are on the telly and put too much drugs up your bumhole.
Cemeteries are a bit unnerving. Partly because of all the dead people. Partly because of the grim reminder that one day I’ll be one of them. Mainly because I don’t the idea that this sort of thing will happen to my gravestone and no-one will bother to fix it as by that point I will inevitably have alienated anyone who found me even slightly bearable:
Possibly the answer to this is to be buried in a gigantic golden sphere embedded into a hillside. It could be one of a series of spheres that form a massive picture of my face. Maybe some of them could move in such a way as to make me wink at space. Tasteful, not like this rubbish:
This belongs to a Moseley, although not any of the ones who are famous for being a sexy Nazi.
If you ever visit Lavender Hill cemetery, be advised that any problems in the cemetery are not to be reported to the cemetery lodge, as this has been flogged off as a private residence. “Overlooking a delightful garden of local remains.”
Just outside is a shop selling gravestones, including one in the shape of a teddy bear. I involuntarily uttered the word “Christ” and pressed on to Gordon Hill, which in deference to the nature of geography is a railway station rather than a former Manchester United player. At least it had stopped snowing.