Purveyor of Bollocks to the Crowned Heads of Europe
Thursday, 25 July 2013
The Beach Boys
We're back at that lovely church at South Wraxall, Wiltshire, now. The tower is Norman, I think, and everything else goes downhill from the 17th century onwards, until the bloody Victorians tacked on the bit at the end.
I sat on an early 18th century table-top tomb this morning, drinking tea and smoking - as usual.
Then I wondered exactly how many tears had been shed over the deaths of the people around me, in the same way that I often wonder exactly how many peanuts there are on board any high-altitude airliner that happens to be passing overhead at about 30,000 feet, as one did as I was attempting to calculate generations of tear-fall.
"God only knows", was the answer. That's about as accurate as you can get under these circumstances.