Tonight I went out for a drink near the local castley-thing. Always fun, except the walking home part. For me, it’s not really the whole creepy-guys-staring-at-you element, as I can usually glare them away.
On the route I take, I walk past a shop that sells gravestones and urns. Now, I went through the whole ‘oh shit mortality’ phase about a year ago, so it doesn’t disturb me on a personal level. What makes me feel horrible whenever I walk past this shop, is this tiny little gravestone they have there. It’s got Winnie the Pooh on it.
Last place I lived, my next-door neighbours were obsessed with Winnie. Well, the woman was. I don’t think the dude had much choice. The people who lived under them lost their first baby. I remember seeing them come home from the hospital, without the baby in the woman’s stomach, and they looked so incredibly sad, that it makes my chest hurt just thinking about them.
Although that’s sad, it’s a very personal kind of sad. I mean, reading that paragraph, you won’t give a crap about the fact that two intensely lovely people lost a child before they even had it. But a tiny headstone with Winnie the Pooh on it is just horrible on so many levels–it’s universal. It turns my stomach just thinking about someone having to buy one of those.
If I ever die, and if I get buried, I want an obnoxious headstone. A tube of toothpaste or something like that.