Probate-r Believe It

I’ve amended my bird of prey assessment to sparrowhawk. I mean, it wasn’t the right colour according to my book, but other than that I’m pretty sure it was probably a sparrowhawk. Also when I happened to mention it in passing to mum during our day’s shenanigans she just went “oh it’ll have been a sparrowhawk.” So let’s go with it.

So yes, today has been a day of admin-based shenanigans and wondering what mum has be up to in the day since I last saw her which has seen all the beautifully sorted out things that I beautifully sorted out and banded together now unbanded and back in the bloody awful slippy poly-pockets that my dad had a penchant for.

The highlight of the day, I’d say, had to be going to sort out the Grant of Probate. We had to go through probate when my dad died and it was an absolute chore and a half. You can do probate yourself, but it’s designed to just put the willies up you before you even start. And then you hear that it costs an arm and a leg. And then you start worrying about everything, And so, in my dad’s case, we went with a team that came on a little card with the death certificates and things of that nature.

And they were, for want of a better phrase, absolutely shite.

The whole process took ages. Six months, all told. And we paid them extortionate amounts of money for the slowest process ever – a process, incidentally, which saw mum doing most of the collating and chasing up and them just rolling around in all their money and laughing maniacally, I suspect.

So obviously the prospect of that sort of shit again is not a pleasant one.

So we’ve changed the people we’re using this time. I toyed with doing it myself but after I read all the small print about who will be killed if the form is incorrectly filled in, we decided to go with a professional.

So we went to see her today.

“It’ll take about two weeks…” she said.


So that happened.

My mum’s ghast was definitely flabbered.

I think, watching the weight lift off her shoulders, that the whole prospect of probate has been weighing quite heavily on my remaining parental unit. The responsibilities of being the executor of my gran’s estate and, by extension, the person who has to decided who gets the crappy blue bowl that no-one likes have been pushing down on her.

She seemed about a zillion times happier as we left the solicitors, mum singing the praises of the lady we’d just met with and happy as the proverbial Larry. I sent her home on the bus with a song in her heart and a spring in her step and have forbidden her from doing anything relating to grandma until Monday. Not that there’s anything to do, really, aside from craft a couple of generic letters to send to a couple of places.

Now we’re just waiting.

For about 24 weeks less than last time.