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A trade journal of a still-emerging field, written by Adam Tinworth.

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A rose for DadTidying up Dad’s grave is always a difficult job and today was no exception. In the heat, the grass grows rapidly and the flowers wilt fast, so there was much to be done.

Today’s effort was made that much harder by the numerous people swarming the church yard. Most of them were part of a cycling party, there to here a bell-ringing demonstration and enjoy one of the most scenic churches in Suffolk. All well and good, except when you’re trying to pray and they’re busy photographing everything in sight.

However, they weren’t the only ones there. There was a couple of old people, cleaning up the graves of their parents and most of their contemporaries. That, I suppose, is the fate of the long-lived. The chap, in particular, was keen to talk. He pointed out one grave in particular. The guy under it dies in his 20s, in 1946.

“He survived the war. He survived being a Japanese prisoner of war. He survived building that railroad,” said the old chap, resting on a nearby grave and warming to his theme. “He survived all that, and then was killed on his motorbike the year he came back. He ran into a telegraph pole.”

There’s no logic to death. It doesn’t fall into the narrative patterns we’d like to assign it. It just is. There. Inevitable. Unpredictable.

But life goes on, even lycra-clad, happy-snapping life, and that’s something to be grateful for. Sometimes graveyards aren’t about remembering the dead. Sometimes they’re about remembering that we’re still alive.

Blogging the Gallery Café It’s Thursday morning and I’m busy enjoying a freshly-squeezed orange juice and some toast in a little coffee shop in a small Suffolk market town. Mmm. This is the right way to blog.

I’ve abandoned One Woman to the joys of London commuting for a couple of days and shunted myself off to the countryside for a few days. So, thanks to BT’s rather tardy rollout of broadband to our more rural areas, the next few days of posting will be brought to you via dial up. How very 1990s.

Today, I’ve been indulging in two of my favourite addictions: hardback books and taking far, far too many pictures. I’ll probably blog about my purchases a little later on, and I’ll certainly post some of the photos. For now, you’ll have to settle for my current working environment. Hell, isn’t it?

I love the countryside. In particular I love market towns where all the shops, bar the coffee shops and the newsagents are shut on a Thursday. This is the life. I may never return to London.

I’m finally free of the round of writing and commissioning I’ve been caught in for the last fortnight. I should have more time on my hands for blogging for the foreseeable future. You may commence rejoicing now.

I’ve been busy catching up with some favourite blogs in the minutes since I despatched a file to a developer and what do I find? This.

Another one gone. Bloody hell, at this rate I’m going to be looking for a whole new lot of blogs to read.

Anyway, back to the normal inanity and photography from tomorrow.

In the late 1980s, I went to Yugoslavia for what would be my last family holiday. I was about to start University, and the four of us never went on holiday all together again.

During that wonderful two weeks, we visited a spectacular bridge in Mostar. Five years later, it was rubble, destroyed on the Balkans conflicts that raged through the area.

Now, it’s back.

Another small step towards healing the region.