I've ended up in Brompton Cemetery in Chelsea twice in the last month. Maybe I'm drawn to both the fetid stench of death and the fetid stench of wealth.
I bet the funeral for the person buried here wasn't one of those 'no one's allowed to wear black and there's a great party afterwards' type affairs. It was probably raining and people were really upset and angry, but in a stiff-upper lipped, Victorian way.
Squirrel on a grave.
Crow on a grave.
There were also crypts you could see into with cracked wooden coffins gathering dust in them. For some reason I didn't take a photos of any of them, but next time I will. Also I'm going to get a camera which isn't attached to a phone.