Paperwork.

Worra palava.
When somebody dies that’s the end of it.
Except it isn’t.
The will, death certificates, unpaid monies from our ISA , which I think is about tuppence halfpenny.
It doesn’t phase me, it just makes me fidgety and irritable.
Endless bits pf paper through the post asking for signatures and fuck knows what else.
I have been absent from blogging because I keep getting waylaid by the fact that the old man is not coming through the door. I keep waiting for him to call or shout or yawn.
Weirdly the longer it goes on, the grieving doesn’t get less it just deepens.
I sleep on his pillow, which is harder and bigger than mine. I have two soft pillows which I bury my head in. The indentation lasts a week. His pillows are heavy duty, the kind you’d get in an army barracks. Feels like self flaggelaion when I lie on them.
I go to bed and at 3.00 a.m.I have a snivel.
The climb upstairs is tricky, when I get to the top step I call his name, loudly and frantically.
‘Help me for Gods sake.’
In my imagination he puts his hands on my bum and pushes me onto the landing. Of course he doesn’t but if I think he’s there then I manage the thirteenth step.
Despite my sadness life goes on.

My hibiscus has blossomed.
I bought it after we had our first and last long haul holiday.
Everybody on telly had fancy vacations. Up till then we’d done Alfriston on a day trip and tried our hand on a camping trip to Ireland. The wind blew a hooley and a geezer from Dublin asked us if we needed help with putting the tent up.
‘No thanks’ I said all British and polite.
‘Yes we fucking do’ said the old git who was tangled up in guy ropes and aggravation.
Finally we went to Barbados.
For some reason they gave us the honeymoon suite. A great big bed, a balcony and a microwave, which we used to make baked potatoes when we ran out of dollars.
On the first day, jetlagged and pale, we were approached by a delicious young man, he was chewing on a Bizzy Lizzy and was known as the flower man. His name was Luton. He free dived, the salt had dried the tips of his dreadlocks a bright blonde.
He asked if he could be our guide.
Innocently we agreed.
Our first trip was into a sugar cane plantation.
Luton chopped off a stem and we sucked on the sweet nectar.
Our second trip was to a shack in Stepney.
I grew up in Stepney, the Bajan version was very different. The shack in Stepney sold bottles of gin. Luton bought us one.
The third trip was to a smugglers cave. Stone steps leading down to a bay. Palm trees and white sand.
I’d been told about this secret paradise by a photographer who took pictures of me for the Jewish Chronicle.
Luton led us down the steps.
We stood at the bottom of a palm tree as the flower man shimmied up the trunk. He twisted off a green coconut then slid down again.
We watched as he hacked off the top of the coconut off and filled it with the gin.
I have photographs of me in a sarong pissed put of my tiny mind.
The fourth trip was to another shack. Did we want some ganja. My hippie husband jumped at the chance.
I have photos of me drunk on gin and then poleaxed by a spliff.
Our penultimate excursion was to the water. Luton dived into the blue sea. Down he went, we waited, he returned to the surface with a huge pink conch shell.
‘Would we like to have it cooked?’ he asked as he pulled out a massive snail.
We declined.
He offered to cook a big fish for us.
We declined.
He guided us back to our hotel where he then suggested that we could take photographs of the three of us engaged in intimacy. I was stoned, the ‘oosbind was stoned, but even through the haze of booze and weed, we realised that we did not want to take part in any kind of sweaty activity.
For the next three days we hid from him.
Driving to the East of the Island. And hiding in out room.
Barbados was full of American tourists and blue Hibiscus hedges.
My hibiscus flowers are white with a red centre. They sleep at night, enjoying all these heat waves even if we aren’t.

We had lots of great holidays after that. The Canaries, Italy, Sweden, Ireland.
Now I can’t go away as we did. Three times a week being dialysed, going away without the ‘osbind does not appeal.
We are having a memorial for him at the end of August.
I have the book for people to sign, and a big photo of him from the funeral parlour.
We’re having a buffet and Yorkshire puddings to honour his heritage.
People will come from all aspects pf his life.
Musical folk and theatrical people.
Relatives and friends.
He’s been gone since June 12th. People ask me if he’s made an appearance.
I thought I saw him next to the fireplace, wearing a green shirt.
Wishful thinking.
His mug hangs on its hook and two of his hats are behind his computer.
I haven’t cleared his bedside table yet.
His shed, full of tools and bird food, will be cleared soon.
I’ve been told to sell his suits, His teddy boy jackets from his bands.
At the moment they are hanging on the back of the bedroom door.
His presence is everywhere. I haven’t looked at his shoes in the drawer under the bed. Two tone Oxfords and Trickers brogues.
He loved a bit of style.
He went to his maker wrapped in an Egyptian cotton sheet. He would have approved of his minimalist departure.
The idea of an over exaggerated funeral would have appalled him.
How to honour somebody when they can’t tell ya what they like is frustrating.
But I knew him for 50 years so I think I have an idea what he would have wanted.
The deeper you love the deeper the grief.
Fucking right.