I became a laughingstock in the pub by asking each one of the people where he wanted to be buried. At first they were shocked, but then they laughed till they cried at the idea, and then they would ask me where I wanted to be buried—that is, if I was lucky enough to be found in time, because they hadn’t found the last road mender but one until spring, by which time he’d been eaten by shrews and mice and foxes, so all they had to bury was a small bundle of bones, like a bunch of asparagus or beef trimmings and soup bones.
