He takes jolly good care of you, or so I am assured by the vicar when I cut his Churchyard grass! Hitherto I have treated his platitude with a certain scorn but maybe, just maybe, there's something to it. Today, as I told you in the preceding post, the Memsahib and I went off to enjoy the global warming (why would anyone be against global warming assuming it ever happens?) at our favourite place, the Hive Cafe beach at Burton Bradstock. This is along the coastal road that rightly deserves to be called the 'English Corniche'. The Hive Cafe, incidentally, is just that - a cafe - no pretensions, no fancies, no sneery waiters, just the very best and very freshest fish, lobster and prawns from the fishermen up the coast.
Anyway, we were sitting outside the Cafe in the sunshine. I was stripped to the waist which caused some excitement amongst the younger females, well, they were all smiling and laughing, when suddenly an air ambulance helicopter appeared and hovered just around the huge cliff headland to the right of our beach. It was quickly followed by two more and then sundry police and coastguard cars arrived. Coming home in the car our suspicions were confirmed when they reported that part of the massive cliff had slid down and, desperately sadly, it looks as though someone - possibly a lady - had been buried. As so often, I immediately recalled Gloucester's bitter words in King Lear:
As flies to wanton boys are we to the Gods/ They kill us for their sport.