the wash up

Just like Jerry Springer, some final thoughts on the trip home.

It is a shame that I started blogging or writing a diary or whatever you want to call it at this time and not earlier. It means I've documented my dad's final days and not the earlier ones. That said, I tend to take the day-to-day for granted and the day-to-day would not have made good reading, maybe full of petty annoyances that, in the end, mean fuck all. Who knows? I don't feel like eulogising. He was a good man. Trust me.

I sat at the foot of dad's final bed for a few moments when the time came to leave the hospice. I said a few things that I cannot recall, I cried some more and I left. I signed my name in the entry/exit log on the reception desk but I had no words in me. With Darren and Ruth I left. We went home, we had some dinner, we chatted...And then it was logistics.

On Thursday we went back to St Raphael's to collect the death certificate that we used to register the death and collected the green slip that is required by the funeral director to move the body. I made a few calls to speak to a few people and let them know and that was my bit done. I had a plane to catch that evening so Darren was left, to finish off the final bits and pieces. Quite a bit but not a lot; dad didn't own anything, there is no will. We need only to stop money coming in and going out of accounts, get pension details for Becky, the wife who survives him (is that the correct phrase?) and, er, that's it. I'd already collected a few photos and items with some sentimental value. Job done eh? Easy.

I took a couple of hundred quid from dad's account and put it into mine. My inheritance (ha!) or rather a few quid that will keep my national lottery subscription, my final remaining UK outgoing, ticking over for a while. While in the bank I changed my home address from London to Sydney. Odd. I no longer have a UK address. I later handed to Darren my key to dad's place. Weird. Very weird. I have a UK bank account...and that is it. Where is home now eh?