Went to the cemetery to visit my dad’s grave today. To avoid those awkward conversation gaps one has on social occasions with deceased parents, I decided to do a bit of weeding and tidying up.
Now this particular cemetery is built on the side of what is basically a small mountain and dad resides right at the bottom so the return journey with my dodgy ankle and slightly wheezy chest was something of a challenge.
Upon finally reaching the summit I saw a couple walking past the gates and offered a friendly, yet muted and respectful greeting such as befitted the solemn occasion. They recoiled in horror and took off in the opposite direction which frankly seemed a little rude.
Glancing in my rear view mirror as I got in the car, I noticed that in my gardening endeavours I had managed to transfer some mud from the back of my hand to across my face. In fact I was generally looking a little unkempt and mucky.
Then it dawned on me that this poor couple out for an early evening stroll had been confronted with a pale, dishevelled, hobbling creature emerging from the graveyard with fresh soil all over its hands and beneath its finger nails. Not only that but said apparition was emitting the shallow, ragged breaths and slight groaning noises that only someone who has just climbed the burial ground equivalent of Everest can produce, along with sporting the red, bloodshot eyes of the hay fever sufferer who has spent the last hour surrounded by decaying funeral flowers.
On the plus side, my dad would have laughed til he puked.
Happy zombieversary Dad!