21 July 2027
Wednesday. Midwinter. Dark by half five. Frost on the lids at dawn. The plots look more like the real thing in July than any other month.
And the pairs come out shaking. Not cold, either. I’ve seen big lads come up out of plot two white as a sheet and grinning like they’ve won something. I’ve seen quiet women come out of plot one and say “AGAIN” to the staff before they’ve got the dirt out of their hair. The management calls it the most extreme one they do. I’ve no reason to doubt them.
Had a pair this week where one of them was hard of hearing. Everything in there comes by sound, I’m told: the voice, the clues. So the other one did the listening for both and talked it through the timber, slow and clear, the whole hour. You could hear it from the shed. Best teamwork I’ve heard all year.
If you’re not sure you want a fright like that, don’t book it. If you’re sure, bring somebody who’ll talk you through the dark.
Tally: plots disturbed, two. Frost, heavy. Tuppence has moved into the shed for the season and taken the good chair.
— H., groundskeeper
