As I was listening to The Truth About Ruth in the cemetery, just as the slow, sombre notes are played on the keyboard in the brief Instrumental part, 3 mourners emerged from a car and slowly walked up the hill to the Chapel in single file, social distancing. They seemed to be slowly marching in time with the musical dirge. It was reminiscent of the cover picture on Abbey Road. The tall, elegant, besuited elderly gent in the middle was wearing a face mask. I'm sitting next to graves of two (presumably) brothers who died in their late teens/twenties, and, again, there's a bottle of Corona Extra on one grave, half full, and a can of Stella on the other. As is the won't these days, there's a small photo of them on their gravestones. They looked like loveable rogues. There's a story to be told there, I think. The man with the grass strimmer has asked if I can sit on the other bench while he trims this area. He has a boat at Colwick which he is in the middle of refurbing and will be finishing painting the inside tomorrow. He's not allowed to paint the outside yet because the boats moored next to other boats at both sides, that are less than two metres away. I always associate the smell of freshly hewn grass with petrol, and the smell of ice cream vans.