White Lightening and Marlboros (purchased by the boy who looked oldest) were distributed. All set. We giggled and swaggered and swore our way to the great iron gateway outside St John's. With hard-earned skill we overcame this daunting man-made boundary and with foreboding that never seemed to go away, we shouted and hollered, overcoming the spiritual boundary that surrounds a graveyard at night. Michael tripped over that branch again, we laughed ourselves senseless and clutched our guts. And when the roaring of cider-soaked teens subsided we hissed at each other to shush, whilst watching the windows of the parsonage for the flick-on of lights. None came and so we continued our stroll, smoking like movie stars and throwing things making our way to our usual spot - the memorial slab of Jacob Mallory, departed this world 2nd June 1945. Imagine our shock as we approached to see a figure huddled there. Guilt and vomit. The parson? A tramp? We froze. The figure unhuddled and turned to face us. White as the label on our cider bottle the figure shimmered. We sank to the moss. The pitiful figure sobbed and said "Do you know what I am reduced to?" Becca, (who knows nothing of these things), whispered, "you are an angel!" "No longer an angel" The figure shrugged and to the ground fell feathers and sinew and bone. "I am destined to carry more than my weight in flight. I am human now and must carry the weight of the world" With a heavy sigh, the angel curled up, and Jacob Mallory became a pillow of despair. We gulped, as one, a chorus of gulps. Then we upped and left it there.