It's the breathing init? Whoever said "don't sweat the small stuff" was wrong. Get the small stuff right and it all falls into place. And, take it from me, sometimes just keeping on breathing is a start...
That's why I go to yoga.
It stops the voices in my head.

I'm a late convert.  No way am I ever going to be one of the world's bendy people not now, not starting from here. That's me at the back of the class trying not to  snicker during the omms, trying not to fall over during the postures (whee! I'm a tree!) and hoping nobody notices when my sun salutations sink slowly behind everyone elses.  I love my yoga class.
I started off going to reduce my blood pressure and ended up staying for the mediation and peace. At the end of the evening I float out of that class on a karmic cloud that lasts through until the next day.

Except I haven't been for awhile because stuff happened. That was my first mistake.
And I didn't book into this evening's class.  That was my second mistake.
Assuming I could cruise into my yoga class just because I really, really need some inner peace might have been the final mistake.  The receptionist was having none of it.
Nope the class is full
But..I'm a regular
But I really need to go. It's been a terrible couple of weeks. I'm stressed, and wound up and look, it's a Yogic Emergency
The tears in my eyes might have been overkill...but I wasn't going to do it, I wasn't going to play the winning card. I wasn't going to say "my mum's died and nobody needs meditation more than me right now in the whole of the West Lothian area. Bump bendy girl in the pink leotard instead of me".

Hell. I'm not that cheap.  I can breathe at home.

It's the 20th October!
I repeat - it's the 20th October!

Lying in bed this morning,....it hit me.
 It's the 20th....

This is the day that Wayne died two years ago .

And I'd forgotten.
Jesus H.

Two years ago today, he was under heavy sedation. He was dying here, on a hospital bed, in the downstairs front room.
Reassured by doctors that he could still hear, I held the phone while the NZ relatives spoke to him.

Not fully understanding what was happening, because he still believed it would be alright in the end, the Cherub sat in with his dad, joked about him sounding like Darth Vadar and talked to him about x box, and walking the dog, and pasta for dinner again.

Our Macmillan night nurse came in at 9. This was Marie's second night, and I liked Marie.  She read to him through the night. She talked to him too.

At twenty past ten,  Marie came through to ask me to see Wayne.
Who had stopped sounding like Darth Vadar.

Because he was dead, "Peaceful at last..."

Wayne died at twenty past ten on the 20th of October, 2009.

A year ago I couldn't even think about this day without crying.
Today I forgot this was the day of his anniversary.

And I think this is a good thing.

Looking back over this blog, I was struck by how few entries I have giving useful advice.  This latest is an attempt to rectify this. And, yes it's a bit on the specialist side, but then 18 months ago I didn't expect to be clearing out  a dead man's flat either.
Here goes. Ten hints for clearing out after the dead.

Hint1 There's no rush. Don't expect that you'll have to clear out household and personal goods immediately. Wayne had his own flat when he died. It took over a year before the lawyers were finished.

Don't bother asking the lawyers what's taking the time.  They'll only look at you like you farted, mutter about The Pension Provider, and charge more.

Hint 2 Mind you, having said there's no rush, don't leave clearing out till the last minute, when anyone who could and would help is on holiday. This will mean you end up doing it alone.

Hint 3 Gumtree, Freecycle and house clearing agencies are only going to get you so far. Turns out they're all choosy about what they take. And nobody's going to want a five year old telly. At the end of the day it's going to be you, the bin bags and boxes making trips to charity shops and the tip.

Hint 4 Take more boxes and bin bags than you think you could ever need. And don't forget the newspapers to wrap the dishes and glasses in.  If you do, you'll end up like me; wrapping it all up in Christmas wrapping paper you found in the cupboard. This looks strange when you drop it off at the charity shop.

Hint 5 Bear in mind that the dead can always surprise you. Who'd have thought Wayne  of all people would have kept all his clothes folded so bloody neatly? They are nearly all clothes you remember well.  And this was the  man who considered money spent on clothes money wasted.  There's going to be the shirts and jackets yoU bought him, the T shirts from holidays in Sri Lanka and Vietnam, the sweatshirts he's wearing in photos left around you. And there will still be the smell of him, soap and talcum and tobacco  from the clothes in the wardrobe.

Hint 6 It starts to get really tough when you come to binning the stuff that was important to him that no one wants anymore. Postcards, his books on Maori history, CAMRA membership card,  his list of Monro climbing guide carefully  annotated.


Hint 7 Don't rule out that in between the birth certificates, and CVs, and old travel diaries and photos, you won't find a love letter.

Which is not written to you (see hint 6).

A love letter written to a mutual friend who has kept unsurprisingly quiet about all this for years.

Hint 8 Use the anger. Old love letters to other people are actually one fantastic way of fuelling you through this. Bastard. Who cares about the music (couple of hundred CDs and counting), the tapes (all those hundreds of D90s dating back to London 1990), binned. Bastard. The books, the mementos of the Springbok tour protests 1981, boxed. Going. Bastard. The real ales guides, the travel guides, the dominoes, the Sheffield Wednesday and All Blacks scarves. Bastard.  See how you like it when all your shit is boxed and gone.


Hint 9 The living never fail to surprise either. The van man from Bethany Trust was round to collect the sofas and bed.  Turns out his partner committed suicide three years ago. Hung herself on the back of a door. He misunderstood the tears. What I'm saying is, always remember to bring tissues. It might not be just you that needs them.

Hint 10 You can surprise yourself. You can rise above it. I took a couple of pictures round to Her House,because she'd said she wanted a memento.

She'd always liked the photo he had hanging in the bedroom.

Aye, d'ye see wee Macy off on a run? 

Macy? On a run?? Yer kiddin me..

Aye, that was her, ken.

Macy???

Aye Macy! Ye deaf or what? She was aff oot along the old back road. iPod, joggers the lot. Nearly made it to the bridge and a'.

Withoot her wee dug though?

Aye withoot the dug... Cryin her eyes out.

Bloody shame that.

Aye bloody shame.  D'ye hear any more about her mother?

Och don't ask.

Naw?

Naw.

That was me.  That was me, tanking it down the M9, seeing how fast the Mazda will go. I'm pushing the old rustbucket to the edge.The speedo goes to 140, I've got 110 - 114 - 120.
And that howling  in the background, that was me too.  I 'm yelling "Yeahwhatyigonnydo What yougonnaedohey? Eh? Bring it on... Bringitonyibastardfuckingbringitonbastardbastardbastard"
I may or may not have been hammering the steering wheel.

But they've put a big roundabout at the end of the M9, called the Newbridge roundabout, and there's a 50mph speed limit with speed cameras - so I had to slow down and take a deep breath, and come to my senses.  None of this was big or clever - or even a particularly good idea since there was still one critter who hadn't died on me in the past 18 months. The Cherub still needs the odd steer to do homework, eat vegetables and get to bed before dawn.

Drugs. Drugs were called for. Bugger strength and fortitude and pulling yourself together. This needs drugs.
Drugs will sort it all.
And this being Scotland, I can get free drugs; free happy drugs from my GP's drop in surgery.
There is nothing wrong with this plan.
Zip. Nadda. Go to doc, come home be happy again.
Or at least stop screaming.

Luckily I was seen by the same GP who had been called out to the house to sign Wayne's death certificate. So he knew the history.  Even better he's a dog  owner himself, so he knows. 
He took one look at me and prescribed Citalopram. One to be taken last thing at night.
Except  I am missing Ned now when I'm awake. So I took one immediately.

......At first nothing happened. Then it all got fluffier. Fuff..That's me lying on my bed just staring at the ceiling...Fuff  Hey... kid will need dinner..I'm not sleeping, I'm not awake I'm just floating...for hours...
Fuff I am not fully conscious, but not sleeping yet.   It's  a schleep.

If I visited anyone yesterday I hope you noticed the pacific haze...Schleep typink..

I can't remember dinner last night.  Although I do remember watching the grill for ages and ages and ages. I remember phone calls, but am not entirely sure who they were from.

Today I will be on half the dose. And  glad that I'm only half as upset as my GP expected me to be.

You know I blame Dr Jacobs for my depression.  Thinking on it, I was all ready to write this post after my angiogram - except I never got round to it.
Depression, see? Dr Jacobs, all five feet four of him was the trigger.

I must be getting better because I'm writing it now...

So there I was, lying on my hospital trolley waiting to get wheeled into the theatre for my angiogram. I was chatting to Dr Jacobs,  my cardiologist.  It was Dr Jacobs who had been my consultant in hospital.

Dr Jacobs it was who first argued that yes actually I had had a heart attack, and since he was the doctor I was staying in hospital.
Dr Jacobs it was who had insisted that I stay in bed only to later catch  me coming back from the outpatients  shop.
Dr Jacobs it was, who had negotiated a deal that I am allowed out of bed but was to stay on the third floor; only to meet me at the front door inhaling next to the smokers...I wasn't Dr Jacobs easiest patient - and that's saying something seeing's how most of his other ladies were elderly and demented.
But we were still on speaking terms. Think of him as a wee man who likes a challenge.

Whilst incarcerated in St James' I'd argued strongly that I had get out asap - because there is only me for the Cherub. When I lost that battle, I then fought a further battle not to be transferred to the Royal because as his father's last hospital, this does not have good associations for the Cherub.  Dr Jacobs then knew some of the past history.

So there we were stuck in the ante room to the theatre, since the procedure scheduled before me was running late. I was musing on how it was typical that he Doctor with a grudge was the one scheduled to put a large knitting needle into my right arm. He was giving me inside gossip on the other medical staff and Nicola Sturgeon's last visit to St James'. When he said

"So Macy, how long's it been? Have you really never been out with someone else since W died?"

Eh? Try running that one past me when it's not completely out of left field....

Did I look girlishly out from under my long dewy eye lashes, before completing my Jenifer Aniston impersonation by sighing and asking sweetly if he was offering?
Nope

Did I sit straight up and as him if he thought such a question was entirely in keeping with the General Medical Council's Ethical Guidelines?
Sadly not.

Or did I collapse into an incoherent lachrymose heap? "OhnoohgodnoI'notgoingthroughallthatagain {SOB} Ohgodohnoohjustthethoughtofevenevenbotheringofeventrying tofindsmalltalkofeven ..shit... Idnon'tknow..whatyougoingtodo? Icouldn't....{SOB}Ohgodsorry{SNIFF} OgodIdon'tknowwhereallthisiscomingfrom{NOSEBLOW}

Yeah.  That'll be Dr Jacobs dealing a knockout blow in the final round then....

It's Father's Day! As if you could miss the reminders to buy a present, send a card, take him out ... For those kept safely indoors, anyone in possession of a radio is going to have heard the dedications to dads on their special day.

Except the Cherub doesn't have a dad.

Actually he did have a dad - a pretty good one.  One who played X Box for hours, always went in goal,and  taught him to swim. He had a laid back dad who was good for camping trips, and crazy golf tournaments and days at the beach.
So it's wrong to say he doesn't have a dad.

He doesn't have a living dad.

But it's a Big Difference - and the card companies and supermarkets are missing a trick here.  There is a surprising lack of Dead Dad cards. This might possibly be because you cant send dead people presents.
Or cards....

But we still need to commemorate his dad somehow.
Tonight, therefore, we will be continuing our recent tradition of Making Something Up as We Go Along.  In this year's ad hoc ceremony, we will be be lighting a Chinese lantern and hoping the rain stays off long enough that it rises over Cheesetown.
Wish us luck.

Does anyone not know it's the shortest day? This is when the earth finally starts hauling itself around to Spring again - or Autumn as they call it in the Southern Hemisphere. It's also been a day that started with a lunar eclipse.

So it's somehow fitting then, that this is also the evening when Cheesetown Parish Church holds its service for the dead. Or more specifically the bereaved. The Recently Bereaved are invited to attend a service - and I'm still recently bereaved in their books, because I got an invitation.
That's what I was doing at the church. Attending a service because I've been invited, and it's bad manners not to go.

Right...yeah...being polite - and waiting on a sign.

Didn't get one

That'll teach me to be cynical...

The Cherub's been fine.
Really.
Yep, it took us all by surprise too. What with him being so close to his dad and all.
But, give or take the odd teary moment watching a sad film. Fine.
No really. FINE. Nothing to talk about. No Need.
FINE.

Too fine. I thought.

And I was right. Because the results from his prelims are just starting to trickle in - and they are looking BAD.
Not "need to try harder this Summer" bad
Not "well at least it's a pass" bad.
Not even a "what the hell happened?" bad
No, for the first time in his life, my child has turned in an earth shattering, phenomenal, unbelievable "What? You're kidding? Is that some kind of school record? BAD.

As one of his teachers said (and why is always the older teachers who seem to notice these things?), "it's as if the jet lag's worn off lately".

October 20th 2010 is not a Good Day chez Macy.

Nothing personal against every October 20th mind. God knows, the sun is shining as brightly and the sky is as clear as it was last October 20th, and maybe every October 20 since the beginning of time for all I know. Difference is this October 20th is the one I know that marks the day Wayne died. This year I know he is dead.

Last October 20th he was heavily sedated and we had already been told that he wouldn't be waking up again. Last October 20th the Cherub was sitting in with his dad under sedation, telling him about his new X Box game, and how it was just pasta for dinner that night.
Last October 20th I was telling him we were rooting for him.

Last October I knew he was dying. I just didn't believe it. Not deep, deep down, heart of hearts.

I knew he wasn't going to see Christmas.
I knew that the hospital bed was being imported into the house for him to die on.
I knew the big send off from the hospice when he left to come back here was his last trip out of there.
I knew the Big Bang drugs we had in a sealed box were for the final sedation.
I just didn't believe it.
Just didn't believe it deep down.

I mean obviously one one level I believed it. I was phoning and mailing friends and family to keep them up to date, if anyone had asked me how he was doing... well I wouldn't have pretended all was fine with the world would I?
But deep down, deep deep down, nah. Bad stuff like this doesn't happen.

And here's the thing. It really does take a year before you finally finally believe that he really really is dead, and is not coming back.

The hardest part is knowing AND believing that he really went out there and died on us.

Horoscopes.
Yeah right
So much bunk there's no point even discussing it.

Indeedies.

W died on the 20th October last year.

This one made me cry on the bus to work.

Can't say I've noticed.

Must cry harder.

It's not just the NZ Determinations Officer who's been issuing forms lately. They're all at it. Pensions administrators, the tax office, credit card agencies, insurance companies.
Used to be not a problem.
Used to be I could at least breeze through the first couple of questions anyway. Those later parts, the parts needing dates and details, and previous reference numbers and previous employers addresses... yeah they could slow me down, but full name, title, date and place of birth, telephone number yep I know those. Lately though, I've been getting stuck at the "Marital Status" bit...

I dunno.
I dunno which box to tick....

Only one of the usual options does not apply. I am very definitely NOT married. No wedding certificate, no quick Balinese beach ceremony or Las Vegas quickie to note. Which has quite obviously, saved me a small fortune in lawyers' fees and expensive new clothes. Hell, let's look on the bright side.

But "single"?? Single sounds like you are unattached but ready to get attached. Maybe if I was filling in a for for Soulmates R Us. com.. but I'm not. Nope, no thanks. Single sounds like I have a completely unfettered existence, no ties, no dependants, which, you know, if you are filling in the life assurance forms ain't the case... cheese, if I was single I wouldn't be applying for life assurance would I?

For a while back I was "separated" on forms. That was a nice, useful definition for bank accounts, and other interested parties who should know that I am filling in this form for just me, but there is this other bastard out there who could be trouble. "Separated" says "Please do not confuse my bank account with the Dybbuk's constant overdraft."
It was also a nice definition for anything to do with the cherub, the tax credit forms, the school records, parties where they needed to know there was another parent. We are separated, so we will need two copies of the forms and reports thanks very much.

The trouble started when "separated" stopped applying. I needed a category which meant, "separated, but we've ironed it all out, and now I'm caring for him here while we wait for him to die, and I'm really, really, Big Time, sorry"

For awhile the Jobcentre people kindly obliged by designating me W's carer - and even paid me £50 a week because I cared (who knows.. maybe if I'd cared less, been in a professional capacity, they'd have paid me more...). But you can't be separated from someone who's dead... can you? And as far as the Jobcentre is concerned you stops caring two months after date of death.

So

That would leave ... what, "widowed"? Nah. Obviously being a Scottish Widow carries a certain cachet around Edinburgh and it seems more appropriate for motor insurance - because you would not believe how carefully I drive now... but nah.. full circle.. no marriage licence.

My favourite definition of the word "ironic" is this, it's when something turns out the opposite of what was intended.
Pedants among you can have fun correcting the grammar above, I'm going to be illustrating semantics here.

Here's a nice illustration.
When W and I split up we had massive rows about PROPERTY and MONEY.
Massive..
HUGE..

You can imagine it all for yourself (and if you can't , lucky you...I'm going to hope it stays that way for you).


I am digressing. The upshot of the Macy and W property war was he went and bought his own flat. It was probably either that or a nuclear warhead. Anyway I was persona extremely non grata for years. For TWO years I was not allowed in the door. No ways.. I ony got my first cup of coffee there after his diagnosis.

So it's pretty ironic now that I own the flat in trust for the Cherub and his half brother. And really really ironic that I'm fitting a new kitchen and decorating HIS flat.

Life's got a habit of getting ironic on me lately.

Oh yes. Even here chez Macy, there is a World Cup Thing going on.
Previous world cups have seen me working around the thing.

Italia 1990 - Loved Nessum Dorma, developed a major obsession with Salvatore Schillaci (hey I'm Scottish and a GIRL, so I could cheer when he scored a goal against England.. it was allowed!).

The 1994 World Cup was in the US, so what with that and no Schillaci, I could safely ignore it.

In 1998 I was still nursing the baby cherub, so I probably slept through most of it. I remember nothing.

World Cups 2002 through to 2006? I could flit in and out to be sociable make general comments about Rooney's fitness, Beckham's lack of direction, Goren Eriksson's general uselessness... for some reason Scotland had failed to qualify yet again, so there was no drama.

This time around it's a bit different.
Well, still no Scotland obviously.. but more to the point, this year it's just me and the Cherub. This year as sole parent, there can be no cop out... It's me filling in the wall chart, me having to give opinions on the goals...or lack of them.

I've been doing heavy revision here. England's dearth of talent even before Ferdinand dropped out? Maradona going a long way to stiff the Argentine team (and Messi) before the end of the first round? Spain's unstoppable form in the qualifying matches?
Yep, done the basic revision. Got the hang of the offside rule.
Gearing up for the harder stuff; Gerrard as midfielder or second striker to support Rooney?
What was wrong with 4-4-2 as a gameplan?

Sometimes though life gets real simple. Even I didn't have to fake my head in my hands watching the re-runs of .. er... was it Robert Green's goal on Saturday??





Sorry...sorry... English people....I didn't have the heart to put a video of that goal on the blog.. This one's good though.. http://gu.com/p/2hke8

I am explaining the joys of Ladbrokes to Penny.

"Because the odds on the Irish lottery are so much better. See, just two balls matching gets you £53.. None of that three balls gets you £10 here. And they were having an open day in there, all very sociable".

"Could be a good place to meet men"...

Who? Wha? huh?? This woman never fails to amaze. Last time I checked she was a 50 year old Senior Accountant, happily married with two teenage kids and an obsession with standardising typefaces across all the Institute's correspondence.

I'm going to give her the benefit of the doubt, and assume she's worrying on my behalf, not her own....

Yeah erm, yeah there were lots of men there ...
More than your bereavement group?

Ah! So unless there is Something She Hasn't Told Me about Mr P, this line of thought is headed straight in my direction.

Mmm, well you know anyone I'm going to meet there is going to have their own set of problems....

And only one of my numbers came up...

Because it's good to have PLANS.

Not that I've always been good at them mind you; big changes yes. In past lives I've been known to announce I was going travelling around Asia and NZ because I'd met W...later I sold up in London to move up to Edinburgh because I fancied a change and there were a lot of real ale pubs in Edinburgh. A later mid life crisis had me selling up from Edinburgh to migrate back to Glasgow... then back again... All those have been without plans...


This big change will be different though. Behold. I am planning it!

Early planning stages started last winter, when I decided that enough was enough, and most people in the world didn't have to live through miserable east coast winters. Canadians and Russians and all those fun loving Scandinavians yes. Rest of the world no. And walking the dog in sidelong sleet and rain in the dark for months on end wasn't making me a better person.
It was pissing me off.

By January I had identified a country where there was no sleet.
Even better I could speak to the locals, and claim the right to reside and work.
AND it's got faster broadband than Cheesetown.
What's not to love about New Zealand?

Step one. Register the Cherub as a NZ citizen - his dad was, so he is.

Step two. .. work on all those lovely new NZ contacts I'm meeting through the E.E.R.I.E

Step 3 - I'll keep you all informed now.
I am, frankly, a genius.

We have been invited to the Hospice's Children's Day! Or rather the Cherub has. Yes, the hospice has a memorial day each year, when they commemorate those who have passed through their doors, and onwards, leaving kids behind.

A fun event indeed.

I've checked that (i) there will be other teenagers there, and (ii) that yes, it was parent they lost**
And I've thought hard about this. On the one hand, why upset the the Cherub? Why not let him carry on as he is? not mentioning his dad, avoiding places they went together, and pretending it hasn't happened.... W himself specifically did not want me dragging the kid to visit his grave. Well sorry W, you didn't get a grave...

So we're off for a morning of making of commemorative picture frames, sand memory bottles and dream catchers.

Before leaving we have to choose a picture of W that the Cherub can use. This is the start of the tears. Is this a good thing? Is this a bad thing? Hell's teeth, how am I supposed to know??? I'm on my own here.. I'm ad libbing you know. But the Cherub is emphatic that he doesn't want to remember his dad as "this old wheezing guy.. one of the NHS's failures..."
I reassure him that we're going to find a photo of him looking like the good-looking, cool guy he really was..
And that's just the start of it.

The event is being run by Wee Mary. Remember Wee Mary? The Social Worker that W hated? The one he walked out of meetings with??? The one.. well the one that I personally can't see the point of either....except well I had more time to suffer fools than he had.

Dealing with the living as opposed to the terminally ill, Wee Mary is in her element. As a dog, Ned is Not Admitted. Wee Mary has to put up with animals when they belong to patients; without this compassion problem, She can Make Her Own Rules.
As late arrivals the Cherub and I need to sit in our allotted seats, i.e. not the ones we were already sitting in. Can we make sure we are wearing our name badges, can we hurry and finish as we are starting the next activity; no the Cherub cannot have a second piece of shortbread..

Throughout the morning I am having trouble with the constant old lady fussiness of the woman. We are chemical opposites and there's nothing I can do about it. And yet, and yet, and yet, how else better to remember W's spirit? If he's here, he's feeling my exasperation.

Again the Cherub has his own unique take on the situation, "Maybe if we didn't have to be different all the time, we wouldn't have such bad luck"

Well he can talk the talk that boy - but he can't walk the wal. Check out his memory jar with the message "You never could beat me at Timesplitters LOL"


**Obviously a granny or grandpa can be no fun to lose either, but sorry, it's not the same as a parent.

I am a fantastic prevaricator. The STUFF I mean to do but don't get round to is nobody's business; God knows I'm brilliant at starting lists of things to do then LOSING them. If you ever want a hundred reasons NOT to do anything.. I'm your girl.
Or I was.
This week I have not only found a lawyer, but actually made an appointment, and gone there.

In the same week.

Yes. I'm updating my will.
W featured in my last one. Since he isn't likely to collect now, and the Cherub is down to one parent I thought there was no point putting this off any longer.
I thought it would be easy.

And the standard stuff is easy. Who gets what. Well who do you think??? Which charities benefit if both the Cherub and I are wiped out in the same cataclysmic event. It's a no brainer - Enjoy Teenage Cancer Trust!!
Then it got much tougher. My lawyer moved on to checking how the Cherub will be provided for, who will be his guardian, his trustees.. It was when we got to the details of whether he could stay in his own home that my new lawyer had to go into the next room for her box of tissues.
So that's what I was doing last week; howling my way through a family box of Kleenex.

And cursing W

Yeah - thanks for leaving me with this one W! Stroll on out and leave me to sort this mess out why don't you!

TS Eliot would have it that "April is the cruelest month".
Obviously TS had his own scheme of seasonal change and momentous events in mind when he wrote that. He was writing some of the most important poetry in English Literature. He was working on finding and defining the objective correlative for the human condition.

Back at mine we're on a different calendar. Different anniversaries. Smaller stuff.
We've already had the First Christmas since W's death. Through January and February we had the first anniversaries of W's operation and terminal diagnosis respectively.
No celebrations were in order.

In March we had Mother's Day. Neither W nor I had any time for this ersatz, commercial schmaltz. Presents and cards were always handmade. So on Mother's Day 2008 I was given a video featuring the Baby Cherub, and a very young W and Macy.
I can't watch it.

This year without a firm steer away from commercial pap, the Cherub went out and bought a present all on his own. I hate Mother's Day.

Now April's here and the flowers we bought on our last family day out are coming into bloom. That's OK. Who's going to get too cut up about daffodils? But we also have the start of the Big Anniversaries.
On April 20th It will be six months to the day since W died.
By a rather superb twist of fate it will also be 18 years to the exact day that I met W.

You want icing on this cake? I remember the date so well because it's my birthday....

OK Big Hand to TS Eliot, but I think I've outdone his April.