The old man sighed heavily as the morning light tripped his eyes open for the last time.
Slowly he manoeuvred out of his bed, gritting his teeth; grimacing against the pain of the arthritis.
I will do this, he thought. Nothing was going to shake his resolve.
Eventually he made it. After entering the shop he painfully passed his last tenner* to the assistant.
“Want it wrapped?” the assistant asked.
“No.” he replied.
Shuffling out of the shop he left to visit his wife using the spade as a crutch.
People stared, they didn’t understand; the State had taken everything.
NHS*. Pah! He thought angrily.
Finding a bench to sit on, he waited for darkness and when it arrived he summoned every last bit of his strength; then started.
Lightning bolts of pain shot through all his joints, especially his hands and back.
Blotting out the pain as much as he could; he focused on this one last task.
Because… if I’m going to be buried, the old man consoled himself once he was done,
I needed to clear some space.
He gradually eased himself down into his wife’s now empty grave, and lying there… he shut his eyes — waiting.
*tenner - the colloquial word for ten UK pounds.
*NHS - The National Health Service of the UK; something which is paid for out of the taxes paid in the UK. (Service is debatable)
