https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=30344800
It was six years ago, and my mate, Pink, had just been told he was going to die. He accepted the news with a grace I can only marvel at, but he said he’d a list of things he’d still like to do.
We sat in a pub one night and read it over. Eight things? Four months? Ok. Deal.
🧵
— Electra Rhodes – writes a bit/archaeologises a bit (@electra_rhodes) January 25, 2023
Can’t figure out where this came to my attention, but I’m sure no truths were harmed in its production…
Don’t get me wrong, he’d been pissed when he found out. Routine check up. Bit of a cough. Shadow on an X-ray. Bad. His wife had just had an all clear and it seemed particularly cruel.
He told us when we were on a dig, heads in a trench, bums in the air. Dignified? Not.
At that point he’d had a few weeks to get used to the news. And what he wanted to do. Never mind us wailing & gnashing our teeth. (Yeah, yeah. Very dramatic. Over it? Good.)
He had a plan. A great plan.
Mind that bit of pot & that jawbone. He said. I’ll tell you, over a pint.
Most of his list was easy – just things he’d never got round to – steer a boat on the Thames, visit a particular collection, see a fancy show – a few seemed harder – publish an essay, trespass, do a gig – and 2 seemed impossible – rough camp at a longbarrow, hide out in a museum…
Six weeks in & we stayed overnight in a museum. Don’t ask which one, we pinky (get it?) swore we’d never tell. Not one I used to work in & no artefacts were harmed…
Pink wasn’t doing so well. But he was still determined. Longbarrow. Camp. Just one night. Pleeeease.
Tony and I did a spot of reconnaissance and schlepped between different sites in Wiltshire and Berks. Private land. Private land. Ancient monument. Shit. Pink’s wife phoned. Maybe just an afternoon trip, pals? I think a night might be too much. Pink though? Such a stubborn git.
What do you do when your friend says one thing, his wife says another, and you can hear death knocking at the outside door?
I dunno about you.
We went to Wayland’s Smithy.
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