He looked over at the coffin again. Maybe he was a Jake, though the man had been seventy-eight when he died, and you didn’t really get many septuagenarian Jakes. At least, not yet. It was going to be strange in fifty years’ time when all the nursing homes would be full of Jakes and Waynes, Tinkerbells and Appletisers, with faded tribal tattoos that roughly translated as ‘Roadworks for next fifty yards’ faded on their lower backs.
