|Nope, they're just stars|
A trip to our local sub-Post Office, where amid all the other tat and borderline-offensive greetings cards, they've started selling grave ornaments.
Ornaments for graves.
At this point, I might like to make some sort of ham-fisted comment about the state of the Royal Mail, but this time I shall let it pass.
So, it transpires that the queue for the counter now takes you past "In memory of a darling son" and a shockingly bad poem to a Beloved Wife which should be dragged out, shot, and left in a tin bath of quicklime round the back of the industrial estate.The Beloved Wife is - according to the doggerel - not dead, just sleeping, and kidding nobody but herself.
I only wanted a stamp - not death, woe and bad poetry.
I'm going back on pension day, with popcorn.