See the tree, how big it's grown

The day of Mother's house move draws inexorably closer, and there's still masses to do; and it's even more difficult to do it all at a distance. Eldest bro is sorting all the legal stuff and other bro and I (because we live nearer) are getting over when we can to sort out the accumulations in lofts and cupboards. I've been reclaiming all the baby clothes that Mum and Dad stored for us when we were in our tiny house with no loft, in readiness for when Baby #2 arrived. Being realistic, that's unlikely to happen now, and if we ever have any grandchildren (looks sternly at The Boy, reminding him that I'm not getting any younger) their mother will probably want lovely new stuff for her cherubs, and not their father's hand-me-downs. It's horrid getting rid of them though, because they're still in excellent condition, even the ones that had done several cousins before Boy. I just have to keep one or two things for old time's sake, and I'll take the rest to charity shops, so that hopefully someone will appreciate them.

Then there was the linen to sort. Lots and lots and lots of linen. Sheets, towels, tablecloths, napkins, place mats and doilies. Mother's never used doilies - they were inherited from her aunts, put into an oak box 30 years ago and there they've stayed ever since. I found about 50. They're also destined for a charity shop.

And we also buried Mother's dog's ashes. He's been in a chestof drawers for several years, and Ma and I thought it best if he stayed in the garden he knew, so we buried him under the mulberry tree. I grew the tree from a seed in 1981, and in its saplinghood it travelled, potted, with Mum and Dad from the Scottish borders to Bexhill before reaching their first-ever owned home two years later. When it outgrew the porch it was planted in the garden where it's thrived, and is a startling reminder of the passage of time.




(Hutters, I took this picture of the mulberry tree shortly before you texted to say how heavy the rain was ...)

It's going to be a terrible wrench for Mother to leave. She knows it's the only sensible thing to do, because she simply can't manage on her own any more, even with a gardener and cleaner coming in once a week. She tells me she's had enough of being so lonely and needs company - but I'm sure she'd prefer 'company' (ie us) to move to her rather than have to face the trauma of leaving all her memories behind. It's going to be very difficult emotionally for us all.

They seek him there

After all that palaver with boob-squishing they couldn't find a darned thing.

I'll take that as a win, then. :)

Sing little birdie, up above

This morning, as I left the house to go and get the newspaper, I distinctly heard a cuckoo. Summer's definitely on the way. Hurrah!

Bend me, shape me, any way you want me

Warning: this may contain too much information for those of a sensitive disposition.

It was nice that the mobile boob-squishing unit was air-conditioned. I'm told that's for the benefit of the equipment, not the staff or patients, but that's par for the course. I was a little disconcerted to be asked when I'd signed in if I was wearing a bra; that suggested that it might have lost a lot of its upliftability. I wonder why the tray on which you have to rest your chesticle is slightly higher than is comfortable. Perhaps it's so that you don't notice the rest of the necessary contortions, or the actual squishing. Four plates they take - from the top and from the side for each accessory. I was very relieved to find that it's the machine that tilts to do the sideview and that I didn't have to lean at 45 degrees, because I don't think my back would have allowed it. And what was best was that neither of them popped once, even though I was fairly sure it was imminent. With the application of some industrial-strength underwear I'm sure they'll be back to a more usual shape in no time.

On seeing my reflection I'm looking slightly rough

Tomorrow is when I have my chesticles ironed courtesy of the NHS. try not to think about me at 4pm - it might put you off your cup of tea.

(Morning Glory)

Somewhere in the middle of a long and convoluted situation.

Found in a box removed during the clearance of one of my mother's lofts was a novel. I have a very catholic (small c) taste in reading material, but this particular book, entitled "What Did It Mean?" was very well named and is one of the most irritating and badly-written books I've ever come across. I wonder if it'll be the second book I've never finished.