17 December 2026
Thursday. Summer. Hot nights. And every second pair turns up dressed for a garden party.
Can’t blame them. It’s warm, they’re out for the evening, they want to look nice. But I find what’s left behind in the plots in the morning, and I can tell you: sequins get everywhere, a long skirt is a liability, and nobody has ever lain down in a coffin gracefully in a sundress.
Trousers. Leggings. Something you could crawl about in and not mind. Shoes that stay on. That’s all. The staff say the same, only more politely.
Get there a quarter of an hour early as well. The staff do the lockers and the safety talk and the business with the restraints, and I notice the ones who turn up late come out of the ground looking twice as flustered. Give yourself an hour and a half, start to finish, with a bit of a sit-down at the end.
Tally: plots disturbed, two. Sequins swept, uncountable. Tuppence has one stuck to her ear and seems pleased with it.
— H., groundskeeper
