21 June 2022
Tuesday. Shortest day of the year, longest night of digging. Found an envelope pinned to the shed door this evening.
It was a copy of a complaint the gentleman in the top hat sent the management last year, about the buttons in the coffins. He wants them smaller. Or quieter. Or disguised as a knot in the wood. There was a space at the bottom for my signature. I did not sign.
Here is my view, for the record. There is a button in each box. Press it and a member of staff is there in no time and the lid comes up. There are cameras on both boxes all hour. People get put in there with their hands tied and their eyes covered, as part of the game, and they get out of all that as part of the game too. But if somebody needs to stop, they stop. That is what lets the rest of it be frightening.
I wrote “no thank you” on the bottom of his complaint, in pencil, and pinned it back up. In the morning it was gone and there was a very small, very cross wax seal on my thermos.
Tally: plots disturbed, two. Buttons pressed, none tonight. Seals on thermos, one. Tuppence has licked it.
— H., groundskeeper
