We buried my gran today. I’ve got an image stuck in my head of the ground peeled back sardine-can style, all fake turf and stuff just rolled out of the way, and her coffin sat at the bottom like an under-resolution cigar. There’s a green field about her stock-full of tombstones (a nice selection of canadians blown up by a nearby ammo-dump), and a white marble church set against trees and a blue sky. Very traditional. She’s in there, beneath the ground, and all I want is to say goodbye to her, but it grabs my tonsils with all these strangers about.

It was a really strange day; I think I loved my gran, but I don’t think I knew her in any way. I’ve mentioned before she couldn’t understand a word I said; but it seems that to everyone else she never stopped nattering; I had people coming up to me all afternoon, saying ‘she was a great gossip, she told us all about you’ and so on. Made me feel even more like a sociopath than usual. Especially on top of my totally atonal arhythmic singing which I got needled about. At my gran’s funeral. Good timing, chuck.

Anyway, it turns out from the sermon that she was a general hero, and a good Christian and everybody loved her. Woo.

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About GriddleOctopus

There are few harder things in life than introducing yourself, especially in print where mellifluous nuance can turn to indulgent wankery. So. I am definitely a 'writer'. You could also call me an 'artist'. I could probably put the words 'designer' and 'consultant' here too, but they feel crass.