Firstly, a misty picture from the park this morning.
Last night was great. John had arranged dinner out, which was lovely and peaceful and romantic. So then I dragged him off to a loud, dirty, sweaty club, which was more raunch than romance.
Four police officers were stabbed yesterday, up in Harrow. A bloke they were trying to talk to ran into a butchers and grabbed a knife. Three of them are still in hospital, the fourth has been released. Whenever I hear about things like that it makes me so angry that we've only got the money to send out single-person patrols. It took four of them to subdue him, and all sustained serious injuries. Imagine if it had just been one officer. Imagine the havoc he could have caused on a busy Saturday shopping street.
Anyway, anger about the job aside, and trying to convince my idiotic brain that just because one bloke with a knife has been arrested in Harrow it doesn't actually mean Harrow will now become a mecca for all madmen with knives, let's get on with the post..
Greg gave a small smile - nothing more than a twitch of the lips, really, when he felt John's warm hand slip into his own, just briefly, to offer a squeeze of condolence and support.
And then people were wandering away from the grave, gathering in groups, talking in low voices, the occasional sniff or sob breaking the calm.
The churchyard had yet to shake off the low mist, creeping around the headstones and giving everything an even more sombre air.
"You okay?" John asked, concern clear in his expression.
Greg nodded and pulled a key from his pocket. In any other situation it would have been a comedy moment - the key was huge, solid, heavy - a thing of fairy tales.
"My grandfather said...he said we should go and look at the place. Said that it was very important to my cousin that it was left to me. Apparently...apparently he admired the fact I'd gone against the family and done what I wanted. I mean, with the floristry." He shrugged. "I never knew it was such a big deal."
Half an hour later they climbed from the car, both looking up at the silent, still, grey castle. The top of the towers were almost invisible in the mist.
"Bloody hell." Greg wasn't sure if he was thinking out loud, or if John was just voicing both their thoughts.
"We should..." Greg began walking toward the huge wooden front doors. Then almost jumped into John's arms as the door swung open, and a man stepped out, smartly dressed in the traditional Butler's suit.
"Welcome, Sirs. We have been expecting you," he said, tone low and steady.
Greg felt John give him a gentle push in the back...