Humpty's bones

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We’re in the graveyard. A cold November day. The ancient tower of St Lawrence’s Church looms over us. Centuries of burials have raised the ground immediately around the church by four feet or so. The soil is dark; so very, very dark. Meandering amongst the tombs, we read inscriptions: William Tobias Wrelter, drowned at sea in Scarborough Bay, 1863. That makes for a salty grave I tell myself. Kathleen Prior, died in her one hundredth year. After much pain there is peace. And on the back of one headstone, visible from the road, is engraved a mischievous reminder of our mortality: Until you follow me: Peace be unto you.

My daughter, Helen, then aged seven, is interested in a patch of freshly turned soil where someone has planted pansies.

‘Cornflakes,’ she announces. ‘Why has someone left cornflakes in the graveyard?’

‘Maybe someone lost their breakfast.’

‘Dad!’

Okay, I admit it. The typically bad Dad joke. Usually, finished off with a tickle, or a playful throttle, to distract the child from a lack of parental wit.

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