There are no pockets in a shroud......

Today, I had 4 hours to kill in Dingwall, waiting for the vets to finish x raying my dog, and waiting for him to be a wee bit less groggy to take home. Where does one go to kill time? Tesco's, of course.

Where I parked, however, backs on to a beautiful graveyard. Now, I am one of those weird folk who can spend hours wandering around graveyards.
I had loads on my mind - looking forward to seeing Dimairt again, and hoping he was O.K., looking forward to getting home, where hopefully my new camera would be waiting for me, worried about the money I was spending.

At the same time as I was going over my bank balance (or lack of it) in my head, I was looking at all these old graves, and I thought - to hell with it. Ye cannae take it wi' ye.

These ostentatious, but beautiful Celtic crosses are interspersed with loads of little stones with simple initials, and no long speeches about how they walked the earth and did their duty to God. They were just deid.

Now, I can't leave the blip like this; far too morbid.

So, I will give you the best message I have ever seen on a gravestone - found in a wee church near Forfar:

"Here lyes my wyfe Agnes
Thank God."