Time in Syria

Phoned my dear mother today to wish her love, and we were reminiscing about the days when my father was a teacher at Fettes College. There was a much-loved groundskeeper at the school, who died after many years of service. A few days later, two of the Fettes masters in charge of a hockey match noticed with horror that the cricket square appeared to have been vandalised in the night. Blotches of white powder were all over it. They looked, they discussed, eventually they licked a finger and had a quick taste, to try and discover what this powder was. They were still perplexed (stumped, perhaps). It was, of course the ashes of the groundskeeper, which his sons had scattered on the cricket pitch the previous evening, feeling their father would want to rest on the turf he had cared for so well.