Bereavement is a terrible thing, but people’s reactions to it are far from predictable. Take the experience my husband had on going to drop off something at a work colleague’s home.
This gent had lost his wife some years earlier, but JF didn’t know anything about it, he was just absolutely baffled when he pulled up at the address. Actually, we’re not sure if this chap’s wife had died, or left him, as will become clear.
The traditional bungalow he arrived at, complete with square of lawn about the size of a hanky and requisite rockery, was home to a football crowd of gnomes. Not just your common or garden, garden gnomes, but accompanying pottery fauna ranging from squirrels and otters to, we think, skunks as well as hedgehogs and snails.
It was difficult to tell what was what. Every last one of them had been painted black. Goth gnomes were a new one, and his mind was racing. Himself handed over the envelope and being an inquiring sort of chap, asked about the colour scheme. ‘Painted ’em all black when me Missuss went,’ was the answer.
We’re not sure what to think, apart from having severe doubts that black is ever going to catch on for the gnomes of suburbia.