Buried in the sand

“Dig a hole. Big enough so that you can be buried right up to the chin. Then get someone to help you bury yourself. And sit in it. And think about your sins against mankind. And try to get an Indian beach dog to lick your face. (Upon completion you will receive £66.60).”


I dug a hole. It was harder than I thought it would be.
I dug and I dug and I dug.
Initially Kevin said I had to dig my hole by myself.
That he wouldn’t help.
But he saw how pathetic I am and how long it was going to take.
So he helped me. Thank God.
Digging a hole deep enough for me to sit in is hard work.
But dig it we did.
And sit in it I did.
And bury me we both did.
I thought about my sins.
The sand presses down on your chest.
It’s harder to breathe.
You can’t take deep breaths.
Shallow breathing for such a long time can feel ever so slightly frightening.
People laughed and pointed.
Kids squealed.
Kids insisted on being buried too.
And dads shook their heads.
I saw one family taking photographs.
Kevin brought me a gin and tonic.
I couldn’t laugh. There was no space for my chest to rise and fall.
I know it looks like I’m having a jolly old time.
But in fact there were moments that were quite scary.
We just didn’t keep any of the photos of my face in distorted agony.
Howling, demented, at the sky.
I drank half of my gin and tonic.
The dogs were not interested in licking my face.
Neither was Kevin.
So we unburied me.
It took ages.
A wonderful site for those behind me as I waddled to the sea with my bikini bottoms full of sand.
Felt as though it was hanging half way down my thighs.
I must have flashed them as I popped as much of it out as I could.
£66.60 please.
Thank you very much.

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