Almost all the people believe sincerely in God, but most are ambivalent at the best about the Church and its officers.

Dying can sometimes be quick; but burials, according to English customs, seem to be even quicker. A Mediterranean climate coupled with no refridgeration, at least then, have instilled a custom of speed. Death notices are pasted up; the black edged signs on the side of the road with the name of the departed; or purple, if you want to go up market, and sometimes for the really swanky even in full colour with a photo of the late lamented and a spray of red roses; because, again, in older days their were no phones, no-one read the newspaper, and the only way to transmit information was by word of mouth or wall posters, manifesti.

The cemeteries are usually walled, with the bodies in cement, stone or marble boxes on racks or shelves stacked up to ten deep. Above ground family vaults with the photos of those who have passed over, and with always fresh flowers, in stark contrast to dank underground British gothic places of interment. The little blocks of flats for the dead have tiny nightlights to bring comfort to the souls of the deceased.