…and all that was left was a bench.


I didn’t know Kev. He could have been a great bloke, the sort you’d lend your car to. He might even have invented something important. Like the bath plug, perhaps. On the other hand, he might have been a right so and so. Perhaps even a murderer, or, worse still, an estate agent.

That’s unlikely, however, because he was obviously nice enough to deserve his own bench, sitting next to the reservoir at Sywell country park.

This got me thinking. Would I want the only remnants of me to be a bench? An object weary dog walkers plant their muddy, sweaty backsides on? I’m not sure I would.

Also, the bench was engraved ‘Kev’s bench’, which leant it a somewhat reserved air. Perhaps Kev isn’t dead. Maybe that is literally his bench which only he should sit at?

Just to be safe, I didn’t sit on it, but it’s left me wondering what I’d like my name to adorn once I’ve departed. I think I finally have the answer – just to the right of the BBC HD channel ident. Then everyone can enjoy me, in glorious high definition.

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