I've been sent to a funeral directors. I should have known I'd end up here at some point, but at least I arrive sitting in the front of the car, not lounging in the back.
My hosts at David Hendy Funeral Services in Camborne, Cornwall, had asked how well I'd handle seeing my first dead body. I guess I'll find out. But if it involves blacking out on the cold floor and going back to my editor sans story, I might end up riding in the business end of that hearse sooner than I think.
David's son Adrian greets me dressed in a smart white shirt, black waistcoat and impossibly shiny shoes. 'It's all kicked off here,' he says, in hushed tones. Out back, he explains that his brother Martin has been busy collecting bodies. There are three in the next room. It makes for a depressing business, I muse. When the office isn't dead, the people in the fridge are.