Tuesday 1st October 2019

A new month.

And I am here in Suffolk, sorting out Mum's estate. Starting with her house.

I didn't know what to expect with a house clearance company. But the clue was in the name. More of that later...

I woke at four in the morning, and laid in bed listening to the rain, pondering all the things I had to do that day. I looked round the house, there just so much stuff, and the place was in such a state. I really didn't know where to start.

I get up and mooch around for three hours, in which time I had breakfast, had a shower and made a dreadful cup of instant coffee (no milk).

Mum's cleaner comes round at half eight, and we swap news and stories of Mum. Make sure you take that white tin off the table she says. Why? Because Mum has been saving two pound coins for years. There's close to £400 in it I reckon.

Sheila had lost so much money in the last year when Mum went in hospital, she didn't get paid. So I hand her the tin, saying, you better have this, I have no idea what's in it.

She refused at first, but then accepted. With tears.

The vans turn up, we go through stuff I wanted to keep, but failed to say the obvious stuff, like the address book on the table; don't throw that out.

And the photos of my posting to the Falklands I found that morning. Don't throw those out either.

But I didn't say.

I left to take more food to the food bank, then drive to Great Yarmouth for the first appointment.

The most important one, really, registering Mum's death.

I had an hour or so to kill, so I wander round the town, taking a shot or two. But for the first time, thanks to GWUK, I notice all the alleys, called Rows, have odd names and all are numbered, there is a maze of them.

I get to the market place, where as a child the treat would be to have a bag of chips, but none of the stalls were open, so I make do with a sausage butty and a mug of builder's tea.

Then to find the library where the register's office now is.

I was 45 minutes early, maybe I could get in before the appointment time?

No.

So, I wait in the small room, the three other people all looking in different directions, so not to make eye contact. I check and recheck the sealed envelope I have to give up.

Time passes slowly.

I was called in, and for half an hour the wheel of bureaucracy turned slowly. Questions asked, answers given.

Sign here, pay for the certificates. £11 a pop. And you need at least five.

I hold out £60 to pay; I can't accept more than £50 in cash.

Sigh.

But it is done, Mum is now an entry on a database, a person deceased.

I leave and go to the car to drive back south to Lowestoft where I have more tasks.

First up is the Journal office, where I have to go to post a notice of Mum's death, as you can't do it online. I thought I would have to show ID or the certificates, but no.

From there, I take another piece of paper to the funeral directors, then to the two banks to show them the certificates, they photocopy them and I have another hour to kill before seeing the solicitor.

We g through things, she outlines what will happen, what I need to do, and it seems that closure could be some time away.

Anyway, that done, I drive back home to find the guys have just about finished, and the house is fucking empty. Just one bed is left, so I have somewhere to sleep that night. The stuff I put on the bed so it wasn't taken away is still there, but everything else is gone, and is already landfill, or will be soon. No time for regrets. They leave, and I find they have taken the kettle, all the cups, coffee, teabags, fridge, knives, forks and spoons, pots, pans, tins, chairs, table, armchairs, shampoo, shower gels, my toothpaste and toothbrush. And the box of fucking wine!

Too late now.

I am a bit stunned. But they had left the vacuum, so do the carpets, but the horrible stains around Mum's chair, or where it used to be, won't shift.

I visit the neighbours, thanking them for what they have done over the years.

I realise there was no point in staying beyond tomorrow's appointment with the funeral directors.

Later, I go to Tesco to buy some soap, toothpaste and a toothbrush, then drive to the Blue Boar, a nice place, for dinner.

Sitting on my won, I listen to two men of my age moan about their wives as they nurse their pints.

I have steak pie, in a proper suet crust. Lovely.

It came with lots of steamed veg, which was very welcome. And at £17 with a beer, great value.

So back to the house to listen to the radio, follow the football on Twitter. Noises echo round the house.

It feels cold.