Chronicle of a death foretold

How spooky is this? I was strutting along Butlers Wharf the other day when I turned away momentarily from the sight and sound of braying diners shovelling oysters and chablis down their grids in one of Sir Tel Conran's expensive eateries. My eyes were drawn to a posy tied to the river railings. Bunches of flowers in public places usually mean someone has cashed in their chips on that spot and I imagined there had been a suicide. Half right. Over the railings and a foot below the stone lip of the quayside was a wooden post 18 inches square and going down into the mud. On top of the post was fixed a laminated plaque announcing that this was the point at which a dearly departed son/husband/father/brother had played as a child, often swimming in the Thames. His name was my name. Life doesn't get much weirder.