Now after half-a-dozen trips to and fro, his amiably scruffy little bungalow is on the market, and we have brought the last two car-loads of "stuff" back to London. Even though all the large furniture is all still up there, waiting for the house-clearance people, we transported enough boxes, bags and bundles to fill our dining room here twice over, and that was after sending more than a dozen sacks of clothes to the charity shop plus umpteen boxes of vases and ornaments and gadgets. And books - I restricted myself to the ones I really wanted so now there are six crates under the dining table and only one *very* small bookcase to put them in.
He couldn't resist a bargain when he saw one, so now we don't need to buy dusters, pan scrubs, freezer bags or dishwasher tablets for the foreseeable future. And all the good glass and china which Mum liked he rarely took out of the cupboards since she died, and I found them rubbing shoulders with the heroic survivors of the pots which were on the table as long ago as I can remember - two pink sideplates with gilt edges, a little china mug with a big handle, two odd cereal bowls, a cut glass milk jug, and a big glass bowl used for jelly. It was finding the china mug which made me cry more than anything else: I can remember my gran giving me that more than 50 years ago.
I'm an only child; one of my mum's siblings and two of my dad's are still alive, but at the moment I feel completely cut off from my roots.