Of Danes, cat’s asses and golden teeth

This week I’m working at the hospital in Lund which is a small university town on the southern shores of Sweden. On the other side of the sea one may wave to happy Danish people. It is a well known fact that Danes have more fun than Swedes. Or is it blondes? Danish blondes? The sea separating the happy and less happy people is called Kattegat. (Wat daardie kat geeët het om 'n see na hom te laat vernoem sal ek graag wil weet.)

On my way to work I have to pass through the Lund grave yard, where the overflow from the hospital ends up. I work civilized hours so my journey to and fro is in broad day light and I see many graves but luckily no ghosts except the ones from the past.

My great grandmother was obsessed with graves. She kept our family graveyard in pristine condition. Her grave and stone was prepared long before she died. It had cost her more than my grave. Which is impressing because a bottle of gin bought in Sweden costs more than a small African country. My father has no fear for the devil or the dead and he buried her in the neatly prepared grave but never bothered to engrave the date of her departure. If she knew this she would be turning over in her grave like the leaves of a book.

The family farm has now been claimed by the Zulus and the graves are now a playground of weeds, erosion and decay. The worms are probably keeping better order six feet under. The last I heard was that my great grandmothers grave had been dug up by vagrants looking for golden teeth or wedding rings. She probably interfered from beneath or above because something scared them away before the job was done. Maybe they were kicked by a donkey. Now she is only three feet under with teeth still intact.
Who wants to join me to bury her again? Champagne on the house?

                         My great grandmother inspecting her grave with one of her six servants.