Date: 17 September 2007 21:05:32
On Saturday morning, I walked through the churchyard opposite my front gate. There is nothing unusual in that as it is pretty much the main highway to everywhere - church (unsurprisingly), the little supermarket, the library, Maggie's house, the bus stop...you get the general idea. I stopped in my tracks as one of the tombs had been cordoned off and the local council had fixed a notice to the site to inform anyone who thought that a big hole and the tomb lurching at a jaunty angle was the latest fashion in burials that the tomb was unsafe. The notice also informed the populace that “it is the responsibility of the owner to ensure that the memorial is made safe.” As the most recent burial to take place in this churchyard was nearly two hundred years ago in approximately 1815, I'm not sure that locating the owner, if this is not the occupant of the tomb, is going to be an easy task. (And if the owner is the occupant of the tomb, at least they know where to find him).
On Saturday evening I went to a concert in a big church in town. I had booked an “unallocated seat” along the south wall of the nave where it is good value and if you arrive early enough you can choose a spot which affords a good view of the conductor and soloists. I arrived to allocate myself a seat avoiding the areas with ornate memorials on the walls (those little cherubs and Grecian urns with grieving widows draped all over them can dig uncomfortably in your back after - oooh - three seconds.) So upon finding a nice flat memorial with no offending pillar in the way, I settled myself on my cushion to enjoy the music.
In spite of the cushion, I was happy to stand up at the interval to relieve the pressure a bit. I turned round to have a look at who had been providing my backrest and collapsed in a heap of giggles. It was none other than not one, but two, kind gentlemen rejoicing in the name of Rawson Hart Boddam. Could a name be more appropriate to describe the state of my benumbed posterior? The father and son had also found room to accommodate their respective wives on the memorial. RHB junior's daughter and son were also remembered there. It was his son's name which brought on more convulsions: Tudor Castle.
*I have not made this up. Brownies' honour.