This Is Not A
Another one-day strike today, so I decided to make best use of the free time - and the weather - by fulfilling a family duty, viz. picking over to St. Paul's churchyard to tidy up my grandparents' grave.
Job done, I walked back towards the main gate. Now, I must have passed this particular gravestone a few times. I might even have read it in that spirit of desultory curiosity which comes over me in such locations. However, this may have been the first time that a certain...oddness about it impinged upon my consciousness, which I thought I might as well share with those of you (hello, Philip!) whose sense of language runs in the same direction.
The stone commemorated a mother, father, and three (adult) children, the youngest of whom departed over forty years ago. However, one of them met a tragic end at the age of just nineteen in the middle of that war that we are currently commemorating-not-celebrating-oh-dear-me-no-this-Union-Jack-bunting-was-left-over-from-the-Olympics-honest.
Nothing remotely funny about that, but what caused me to chuckle was the slightly bizarre image in my head resulting from an unfortunate mis-ordering in the sequence of information provided:
Perhaps they should have looked under the floorboards...