Trust Marcia to be different and get buried in a field. She even had a wicker coffin, of all things. Looked like she was going to her grave in a massive cat basket. Meowing her way into the next life.
All her hippie friends are here, weeping and wailing and wiping their noses on their sleeves. Makes my skin creep. They need a good wash, the lot of them. She didn’t have a vicar, of course. Some bloke in a shroud read from the Bhagavad something and they sprinkled holy water over her. It probably wasn’t holy water.
Of course, I loved her. She was my sister, after all. I just couldn’t understand her. Why give up a house and a job to be a white witch in Glastonbury? She could have stayed married to Colin, and kept in touch with the children, but she gave it all up, for what? A tent, in a field with chanting, and ‘vegan’ food, and ‘helping the community’. Dear God.
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