So, dismissing what might be referred to as a theological grey area (I think it's a cemetery just down the road from Canterbury Cathedral) all that's left for those spirits is to inhabit the non-corporeal netherworld, and have a bit of a laugh hiding their families keys, moaning a bit in the middle of the night, and slamming a door or two when everyone's downstairs.
(And yes, I'm well aware the existence of ghosts etc. is a controversial topic, but hey, it's my opinion. If you don't like it, you can go to He…oh bugger, I can't use that. I'll have to think of something else now. The Eastend of London will do. That's as close as you're going to get to hell on earth).
The problem with being a member of this non-secular, ethereal rambling club, and by association, what had given Deirdre such
