Two years ago Chloë and I scattered the ashes of a very dear friend, Frances De Silva, here in the Quiet Garden and around the little sanctuary. I don't need to go back here to remember Frances, whose caravan was only a pace or two away from the bushes we shook her into, but it was quite nice to sit there today and give her a bit of extra attention. She made many cups of sanity-saving tea for me on difficult post-separation days, whilst she shared tales of her own marital woes - most memorably the day she threw a plate of food at her first husband and knocked him cold. She watched the potato sliding down the wall and wondered how many years she'd get if he was dead! That's the sort of tale to put a bit of iron into the soul and momentary distress into perspective!
I was always jealous that I hadn't had the brio to throw a plate of food...
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