Lizzie and I are wading through the long grass of Bunton Church’s graveyard, accompanied by our dog Cedric*.
For some reason, Lizzie’s let the hellhound off the lead… and he’s running about hither and thither over the graves, like a ginger, malevolent version of Greyfriars Bobby.
‘Don’t let him wee on the graves!’ I squawk at Lizzie. But Lizzie has a bad summer cold, which has made her even more hard of hearing than usual.
‘Eh?’ she replies.
‘I SAID DON’T LET HIM PISS ON THE GRAVES!’ I practically shout, upsetting the solemn calm of my surroundings. ‘IT’S DISRESPECTFUL!’
I run up to Cedric and shoo him away from a mossy Victorian grave he’s about to whizz on.
Lizzie has heard me this time.
‘When you’ve passed away,’ she says, with a crooked smile which suggests she’s about to say something particularly outré and mischievous, ‘I’m going to make sure you’re buried here. And then I’ll bring Cedric so he can piss on your grave.’
‘The thought of Cedric outliving me,’ I reply, ‘is appalling enough, even without him weeing on my corpse.’
Something suddenly occurs to me. This is the first time, in a long while, Lizzie has said something to suggest she might actually outlive me.
It feels like a turning point. Although one, sadly, sullied by the sight of Cedric standing nearby with leg cocked over yet another gravestone.
‘Get OFF!’ I shriek at him.
July 2023
* Yes, that is Cedric in the picture above, not a fox. Despite appearances.
P. D. Clifton 
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