I stood rigid, motionlees and only aware of my palpitating heart. To my great relief, the goths were there simply to admire the graves! How perfectly wonderful, I reflected, that although we looked so different, we both loved the same grey and cold stone that bespeaks death!
Those chavs with their love of cigerettes too loved death in their own shabby, council estate kind of way, but, weren't they fearfully poorer than me! I felt a sense of my own inate superiority and fixed my step firmly in the direction of home.
There my beloved husband awaited draped from head to foot in freshly cut ivy, which he often liked to do after he'd slipped out of the shower. He was a gin and tonic man on the outside, a pillar of the community, and no one would have ever guessed that he secretly liked to festoon himself in this way. I for my part, flinched from addressing his issues, not knowing where to put my face confronted with him at such times.
I ran from the house past those ghastly chavs, on and on until I got back to the goths I'd origionally fled from. I felt a sense of belonging in their black presence, I felt that maybe this was where I belonged after all.
I said to one of them "I say, you look awfully dapper in your black attire, I think I could happily clad myself in a similar garb and we could take rubbings of grave stones together for kicks." The lead goth just smiled and handed me his sword!