31 October 2027
Sunday. Halloween. Busiest night of the year in my line of work, and the strangest.
Two skeletons at the gate, holding hands. A pair of vampires, who asked whether the coffins came with a pillow. Somebody dressed as me, I think, with a rake. I was flattered until I realised it was meant to be a scarecrow.
The speaker in my shed has been humming since breakfast. Four years of the padded room next door, apparently, and the voice is celebrating. I took the tea towel off for the night, as a gesture. It hummed louder. I put it back.
Had a lady arrive in a wheelchair, keen as anything for the plots. Staff had to tell her no: you have to climb in and lie flat and crawl, and there are two big steps up to my plots besides. They found her a room down the hall that suits a chair and she went off happy, dressed as a witch, broom across her knees.
Tally: plots disturbed, two. Costumes, dozens. Tuppence dressed as a cat, which she does every year.
— H., groundskeeper
