We didn’t manage to register my grandma’s death today after all. This morning turned into what could best be described as a bit of a bollocks as we were trying to get a medical certificate to present to the registrar so that all the relevant paperwork could be done.
Mum had her stubborn head on, something that shows its face more often since the stroke than it ever did in the past, as was refusing to phone the doctor’s surgery to chase up the certificate. And time was rapidly approaching for us to head to the appointment for registering.
But then the doctor did ring and explain that he had signed part one of the certificate and that we could collect that, but that another doctor would need to complete the second part. This, you see, is all because Harold Shipman went around offing pensioners like they were flies so now no one doctor can have all the responsibility for death related nonsense.
Turns out, that part one of the certificate is all you need to be able to register the death. But no-one knew that. Not even the registrars when we rang to double check – while we were still in time for the appointment. They umm-ed and ahh-ed and said they’d never heard of this second part malarkey but it would probably be better if they double-checked and could they cancel our appointment while they looked into it.
And then about ten minutes after we should have been down there watching someone type stuff from one form onto another they rang back and went “oh yeah that was fine…”
Which was all sorts of annoying.
We’re going tomorrow, now. But I’m definitely getting the gist that this whole episode isn’t going to be straight forward. That wherever she is in the ether, grandma is pulling strings and making machinations to put as many obstacles in our path as possible.
And this is without taking into account that the scariest doll in all of existence is now back in our lives. Grandma had a hideously terrifying doll. It looked like it was made of pure evil wrapped in a sort of felt material. When she lived with mum and dad she could be heard, at night, talking with the doll. It’s that sort of doll. It gives you the willies. It’s the sort of doll you could throw in the ocean and by the time you got home it would already be in your house, sitting in a chair, dripping wet.
It’s the most terrifying thing ever.
We spent a good while today discussing how best to rid ourselves of it. My sister is very, very adamant that it is destroyed by fire. We have wondered if it’s possible to have it put into the coffin pre-cremation just so we know that we are rid of it. But that way the ashes of the demon doll live on. And that’s not even something you want to think of.
I daren’t go to sleep tonight, because I tried to do it in by closing its head – repeatedly – in the garage door. Mum says it will probably come and get me.
I think it might.