Body of Work

Death has dogged me this New Year. Yesterday, New Year’s Eve, I was enthralled, if a little taken aback, by a radio series titled 14 Entertainers Who Died in Plane Crashes. The programme informs me that there are more than 14 but these in ranking order are the most affecting. I imagine for the deceased they were all affected in much the same way—Death has a certain commonality about it—and some will be mortified (!) that they didn’t make the Top 14 cut, particularly as 3 of the 14: Buddy Holly, Richie Valens and the Big Bopper were all on the same plane. One would have thought that a more equitable dishing out would have been…well…more equitable. My other brush with death came today when I visited the cemetery across the road. It is an ancient and gracious cemetery. One hears nothing from the occupants of course, but their inscribed tombstones speak volumes. For anyone for whom this would be practical, I suggest a visit to the Helensville Cemetery. I would however proffer one caution—it truly is one of those nice places to visit but one wouldn’t want to live there places. But you may well be drawn to ask why on a beautiful New Year’s Day I am visiting a cemetery. In truth, I cannot answer that, but I have a feeling that 2010 is going to be a particularly perverse year for your Fryday scribe.