13 May 2027
Thursday. Three things tonight, none of them soil.
One. The Butcher from down the hall came by my herb bed with a pair of scissors and asked, very politely, whether he might have some parsley. I said help yourself. He took the lot. Left a menu card on the barrow by way of thanks. I couldn’t read it; it was all loops. Tuppence sat on it.
Two. A pair rolled up from one of the bars, singing, and asked to be buried. Staff said no, kindly, and told them to come back sober. I’ve no time for a drunk in a coffin either. You need your wits about you in there, and they’d left theirs at the pub.
Three. A very young-looking pair got asked for identification at the gate. Both eighteen, as it happens, and they had the cards to show it. Fair enough to ask. Grown-ups only, in my plots, and nobody younger gets to come and watch.
Tally: plots disturbed, two. Parsley, none left. Menu cards, one, slightly sat on.
— H., groundskeeper
