annanotbob2's Diaryland Diary

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Just another day in paradise

Well, I've calmed down a bit - there was scope. I'd created a right fucking mess of papers and folders, mountains of it, all out of its boxes and neat piles, flung all over the floor in three rooms, as I desperately searched first for my passport, then for my birth certificate, which I'd fucking missed in the very first place I'd looked, where they belong in the pigeon-hole in my desk. How did I miss them? Thank fuck I went back and looked again, but I'd really lost the plot by then, I was beside myself. I kept finding things - funeral whatever the fuck they're called - the little booklets with photos of people you love who've died. Oh man, so many of them. I haven't had them gathered together before, they kept turning up - a handful of receipts from the garage from mending the Fiesta - not even my last car, but the one before that - two letters from my Dr dated 2011, a brochure for the Brighton Festival, 2014, a Christmas card from my pal SB, then Dave's funeral, oh Dave, such a dear man, who took his own life, having not been able to tell any of us how desperate he was. A beautiful photo of him laughing on the front. That kind of thing. 

So. Today I had therapy. It was meant to be EMDR but we only do that when I'm up to it and I knew I wasn't. I've also been missing Son so much it feels like another massive grief. I don't write about it here because it's about him and not mine to tell. but I haven't seen him since Glastonbury last year, so a whole year. His choice not mine, for reasons I'm not even really clear about, and for some reason I'd hoped, not quite consciously, that he'd come here while Bloke was at Womad. I kept looking at cars coming towards me, checking that he wasn't driving - madness. It all burst when Bloke came home and then it was Monday and Son would have to be at work and it hadn't happened, he hadn't come and I was heartbroken. 

So I told my therapist all this this morning and I cried and I cried and made a plan to go and eat a big breakfast then come home and sort through the papers, throwing away all the old bank statements and lesson plans for Year 9 from 2005, because the mess was killing me. But when I got home I remembered I'd bought a kilo of very ripe blackcurrants yesterday and if I didn't make jam with them today they'd be over, so I did that instead. In the middle of a chaotic kitchen, I just moved everything out of the way, wiped down the counter and off I went, boiling berries, weighing sugar, squeezing lemons, splashing purple juice all over bloody everything and now I have three and a bit jars of beautiful blackcurrant jelly. We call it jelly when it's strained and jam when it has all the bits in. I thought it would be easier to strain it but it fucking wasn't. 

I'd bought the dog a bone earlier and she kept barking to come in or go out, taking it into the garden and burying it, then digging it back up, marching along, dead happy with her tail up and wagging. Filthy she is, especially her face and her front feet. 

Finally I sat down and started to go through the papers on the sofa, which I did manage to reduce to a big bag of recycling and a small pile of keepers. But I came across a print out of all the speeches and eulogies at Sammie's funeral. More tears, obvs. I needed to share it and I can't share that kind of thing with Bloke so I posted this on Facebook:

Today I am grateful to have found lots of good things while going through the mountains of paper. I’m throwing almost all away, but this is part of the eulogy for our Sammie, so precious. We’d asked people for memories of her before she was so ill. My sister Sal said, “I remember as a child she always felt so rich, from her tatty party dress she thought everyone wanted, to feeling sorry for people who didn’t have daisies in their lawn. She was a fabulous child, so full of life and joy and talk and love.”

SarahB said, “She was always really bright, light and funny. I think of a sunflower. Very talkative and animated. We used to play dolls together a lot. Oh and bossy, heh heh. Her and Anna seemed like they were old, old pals sometimes…”

Dot described when me and Sammie moved in with Dot and her family, how her dad (I could cry another whole bucket of tears for dear Mike Bos) said she was not to go in his office at all but soon she was playing piano in said office or under his desk while he worked. “Oh she’s ok. She’s just making a den.” "We all adored her."

I will always be so grateful for the love  - the love Sammie inspired and gave out and the love that we’ve all been blessed with through the darkest days. But still #fuckms big time 

12:04 a.m. - 03.08.23

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