Unhurried, it swirls, rising and then sinking lower than in it was before. It seems too casual to make a cold blanket, yet the ground becomes increasingly white. Please let me be snowed-in tomorrow. Let the roads be impassable.
If I do much more, I fear I might end up throwing all of my possessions out of the window onto the garden below.
When they ask me why I did it I’ll tell them they are no longer required. If they mention the damage to the flowers, I’ll tell them that they are no longer required, either.
I’ve spent weeks trying to clear my ex-partner’s house on my own. He died a couple of months ago. My son lived there and he’s been given notice to quit as it’s a rented property Paul has felt incapable of making any decisions about what to keep and what to discard. He didn’t want to let anything go until he’d decided, so I’ve been stuck.
Finally it reached a point where I had to take over the decision-making, so my daughter and her fiance drove down to help, over the weekend, . We took some stuff to a charity shop, and we brought a lot over to my small flat. Laura and Dave have been wonderful. I don’t know what I’d have done without their help. I don’t even drive.
On Saturday night we had a massive bonfire. A sofa, three reclining chairs, two leather armchairs, a king-size bed and a lot of other items were burnt to a cinder. It wasn’t my idea, but I was beyond caring.
That was to be the end of my duties. They have to be out tomorrow. Paul’s girlfriend’s father had agreed to hire a van for today and tomorrow, collect the things they wanted to keep, and put them in his storage unit. He was also going to dump what was left over.
I had a premonition that they would be let down. I was right. Kristi’s father isn’t going to help after all, and they can’t use his storage unit, either.
My nephew and sister-in-spirit have kindly agreed to step into the breach. We have nowhere to put the cooker, fridge, freezer, washing machine, a large chest of drawers and their bed, so I’m hoping the landlord of the house we’re clearing will agree to let us store it in the shed outside the house. The place will have to be gutted before it’s fit for new tenants, which will take a while.
We’ll collect their clothes and personal items. I’ll have to somehow find space for them in my flat until they are rehoused. It’s a good thing I’m a genius when it comes to space-saving. I spent today neatly packing what I already have of theirs into the smallest area possible (this includes and Ikea chest of drawers, two Ikea cupboard units, two tall shelf units, a large coffee table and some smaller pieces of furniture), and separating what I think they won’t need.
My living-room sofa is piled up with bags of goods to be delivered to Oxfam. Under the window I have boxes of tools which I hope to find a home for. By tomorrow evening, I doubt that there’ll be more than a narrow corridor between my bedroom door and my bed. Owing to Paul’s mental health issues, the council are legally bound to rehouse them, so from tomorrow night they should have temporary accommodation. I hope they get rehoused soon.
Until I spoke to my nephew, about twenty minutes ago, I was almost at the end of my tether. I was afraid to allow myself to cry. If I gave in to it now, I might never stop.
It appears – as always – my mental health condition must take a back seat; I’m a mother.
©Jane Paterson Basil