I wrote to the Duke to ask for my mother’s wish to be buried near her parents. His reply was the curtest possible refusal. Standing by the tiny grave in the hideous suburban cemetery...
The wind bending trees and flattening the grass, brings startling images. Pitches me not into memory, but fact. Bad dreams. Adrenaline rushes. I keep telling myself it is not happening...
Desolation gripped Scott. Not the despondency of Knightsbridge or the King’s Road. Not the feelings invoked by slatternly whores who sidled up to him at ‘hooray’ parties...
I thought of ME 110's and bomber moons over London lighting the Thames and fires burning, and death raining down from the roaring heavens...how the children cried. A cold sweat soaked my inner cloths.