Human Remains

thinking of my mother on a Wednesday evening, and occasionally I used to wonder why this was, until I realised that of course, with Wednesday being my laundry and housekeeping evening, doing these menial tasks reminds me of our time in the house together after my father died.
    The woman from the nursing home rang again half an hour ago. My mother needs a new dressing gown, apparently, and she has been asking after me. This last I know to be a lie. Why are they so keen for me to visit? I have nothing to say to her, and, if by some miracle she were to be compos mentis at the moment I chose to arrive, the chances of her having something of consequence to say to me are very slim indeed.
    One of these days I will shout something down the phone at the Matron, or whatever she is. I will be driven to madness, to fury by her lack of sensitivity.
The woman abused me,
I shall cry.
She ruined my childhood and has therefore made it impossible for me to form a functioning adult relationship with a woman. I don’t want to see her. May she rot quietly and stinkingly in her wing-backed armchair
…
    See how quickly she rings back after that, shall we?
    In the meantime, whilst I am terribly distracted at the thought of the next edition of the newspaper and what delicious details it may contain, I am also very aware of the fact that at the moment I only have two on the go, and it is becoming my custom to have three. Three is manageable, a beautiful, stylish and balanced number. When one of them finally goes, then I always find a replacement. I’m getting so good at spotting when they are close. Sadly, however, I have been a bit distracted of late and I had to hurry the last one on a bit.
    So – where to next? Back to the university? That place has been especially productive; I met three of them there. Who would have thought that the foyer of a university building would attract such a high proportion of depressives? The doctor’s surgery – I had several from there. But that is a dangerous place… any more and they will see the pattern. The supermarket is always a good bet, and there are so many of them that the chances are no link between them would be made. There’s a trick to it, and it’s the time of day. Between half-past six and nine at night is when they come out.
    You can spot them too. Discard the harassed parents escaping to the shop once the partner is home from work to do the kids’ bedtime – in the trolley: nappies, ready meals, colic drops. The executives, single maybe, but they will have good jobs – quality meat, small packs of exotic vegetables, stir-fry sauce, still wearing a suit and tie.
    The ones you want are those who look as if they are wearing the clothes they wore to bed last night. The ones who come out at night because they can’t bear the crowds. They don’t shop during the daytime because they think the noise of babies yelling might burst their eardrums, and it makes them want to cry themselves. They shop at night, when it’s quiet and dark and nobody will stare at them, nobody will notice them, nobody will give them a second glance. They work their way around the supermarket as if they are invisible because that’s how they feel. In their trollies will be frozen food, mostly, because they’ll only shop once a month, if that. They will have a list, because they don’t want to have to come back if they’ve forgotten something. They will not make eye contact. They will not talk to anyone.
    Thinking about the supermarket reminds me of the one I saw earlier in the week. She looked almost ready. I might go back there to see if I can find her. Cat food, though – that was a problem. Cats have a habit of drawing attention to themselves if they don’t get fed. Dogs are worse, of course, since they will bark if they have to. But cats… they add an element of risk, and risk is something I try to eliminate at all costs.
    There are plenty of them out there who do not own cats. I shall keep looking.
    I need a public place where sad people go…

Annabel
     
     
    I didn’t know the first thing about planning a funeral, but when I went to the register office this morning to get Mum’s death certificate they gave me a leaflet with a helpful checklist to work through, and another one with a list of local funeral directors. Back home, sitting at the dining table, a pad and pen next to me, I listened to answering machine messages about out-of-hours services and how much they would like to call me back.