Lavender Hill Cemetery, Enfield.
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.