So today I’ve been at mum’s doing odds and sods of jobs and things that we put off after my dad died.
I got to pressure wash things, in and amongst the snow falls, so at least the decking isn’t slippy anymore. And I refilled the water feature, watered all the plants, filled the bird feeders, harvested rhubarb and dead headed plants. At least one of those things was way outside of my comfort zone. But I managed.
And then I retreated inside to the unsnowy world of my old bedroom which was repurposed as an office (either side of being somewhere my gran could wet the bed on a regular basis). The office was, very much, father’s domain and is a memorial to his hoarding.
Basically, I spent a good portion of the afternoon disposing of printed copies of lottery tickets my dad put on online sometime in 2008.
They had all been printed and checked off – something which would be done automatically online – and then kept in a folder. For no reason whatsoever.
What I learnt from these lottery tickets was two-fold: my dad loved to put the buggers on AND my dad was massively unlucky. Not a winner amongst them.
I also, while mum is otherwise indisposed, took the time to sort out the drawers next to her chair in the front room. She likes to keep things, it would appear, with the same gusto as my dad.
Sadly, though, thanks to her son she will now no longer be able to open that drawer and pull out a letter allowing her to reminisce of the time, in 2008 (clearly a good year for hoarding), the HSBC changed the terms and conditions of her current account.
I’ve left the copy of the letter she sent to get a new shelf (costing £15.04 in 1997) for a cooker which, I think, is two before the one she has now.
I’m not totally heartless.