Here where people once buried were not so much planted as covered Postman’s Park is notably higher than the ground about it. All those bones and how lovely does the grass grow? Space was ever at a premium and digging down liable to produce a macabre harvest – so the dead of London are here in layers. In the city proper, not so far from Aldersgate and St Pauls, the park is made up of several former graveyards and overseen by the former centre for the General Post Office it came by its name for the curiosity it accrued.
It’s true that the GPO on fine days would eat their doorsteps and drink doubtless from stone bottles before engaging with Dick Van Dyke in that scary, leg-waggling dancing they all seemed to do back in VictorianGeorgianCockneyland. But that is not the reason for its name. The ground made of the dead and the stones cleared away to be replaced by notices, like adverts for the lost, here and letters can be posted and replies secured from the very same dead. Only useful if one has an interest in one buried there for they’ve long since stopped taking messages.
Of course and what then do the dead say? Theologians, goths and the handsomely depressed might (and have) queried the afterlife. The messages returned are ever to the point, but the point being that the living should (it seems) bugger off.
The dead have a point. It would irritate the fuck out of you if when enjoying a wholesome pretence at a ‘game’ on your Wii (hint, if you’re not half buried in your own filth it’s not a proper computer game) dead Albert Finney was knocking on the door and demanding to know what was new in the land of the living.
Call Of Doom: Super Special Special Soldier Get Fit Ninja, apparently.