A walk in Streatham Cemetary. Yes, I know. Shut up.
There’s no-one famous buried there, which endears it to me all the more. Sure, Blake’s in Bunhill, and Marx is in Highgate, and there are famous dead people all over London, but their graves don’t mean anything much to me. But to walk in an anonymous cemetary, and see a husband and wife buried together, though they died nearly fifty years apart, that’s moving. A line of graves, all firefighters from the same unit, dead within two weeks of one another. A mother buried with her three week old son. These things get to me. These things need to be seen, just so someone knows that they happened. There’s no such thing as the unremarkable dead.