Special Delivery

Having sorted out the oath with the solicitor yesterday, today I had to post it back to the solicitor who is dealing with probate. I'm finding every little thing about dealing with my Mum's affairs emotionally draining. As I was leaving home this morning I remembered that there was another letter from the solicitor, which I'd only briefly glanced at. It was on the surface of it one of those so-called customer care letters where they set out exactly how much (not very) they are going to do for you and how many limbs (most of them) they expect from you in return. I thought all I'd have to do is to sign it and return it in the same envelope as the Oath and Will. On further reading it turns out because of money laundering regulations they need a "certified photocopy" of my passport which they helpfully pointed out that I could obtain from my Bank. So now I have to find my passport and find my bank (this is the 21st Century). Why send me masses of bumpf (bumf, bumph according to which dictionary you use) and then bury the only important bit in the place least likely to be read (two-thirds of the way down the second to last page)?

I was so.... I was going to say angry, but I don't really do angry. Frustrated, dissapointed, sad. Sad because I don't want things to do with my Mum to be a hassle. All of the above (even the anger bit), directed at myself because I could have / should have read the letter four or five days ago when I received the letter. And that was another thing that annoyed/upset me - the letter (and the one about the Oath/Will) were both dated 29th February but were received on 5th March. I know that the Oath Will was posted on the 4th because it was sent Special Delivery. I said that I received it on the 5th but being Special Delivery and no-one being in to sign for it I didn't actually see it until the 8th.

So because I don't have a certified copy of my passport I had to send the Will/Oath back without. I won't go into the tragi-comic attempts at enveloping them but they added to the general unhappiness. Then I went to the little local post office because it needed to be sent Special Delivery and they were polite and very efficient and although I gulped a little at the cost, it still seemed good value for money (in that I couldn't possibly perform the same service myself at the same price).

Solicitors and sub-Post Offices. Now which of those are closing down in vast quantities and which are springing up on every street corner?

Connections

On BBC Breakfast this morning they were talking about people's memories being triggered by music, presumably triggered by psycholgists at Leeds University carrying out research into people's memories of Beatles' music.

My wife immediately reminised about the memories evoked by Minnie Ripperton's "Loving You" of her hall of residence in her first year at University. Although I knew her then, it was a time before we connected, so I didn't enquire further. She also cited "Hey Jude" which we danced to at the disco at University. The song that always reminds me of there and then is September '63 by the Four Seasons. Santana's "Caravanserai" always reminds me of summer evenings with the windows open and it getting gradually darker and no one wanting to break the spell by turning a light on. I can hear those cricket-like noises at the beginning now, even though it's midwinter and I haven't played Caravanserai in over 20 years

A little while ago I had a vivid, very different example of how something marginally connected can evoke vivid memories. My mother died just before Christmas and I am her executor. To cut an extremely long and tedious story short I went to see a solicitor today to swear an oath about documents connected with probate. I had expected to have to make an appointment, but the solicitor was able to see me almost straight away. As part of the oath he passed me a small well-used bible. It stirred a memory something. I didn't realise at the time but I do now - Sunday School. As I signed the document I cried. Probably as much for lost youth as for a lost mother.

Real visitors!

Well so that's how you get real visitors then. You visit "Petite Anglaise" and leave a comment and her nice readers come and visit you.

Visitors from seven countries (and the one from the US wasn't Google). If I had one of those smiley gadget thingies the ends would be pointing upwards

On being second best

I'm in a regular Monday night quiz team. Well that's not entirely accurate. I'm in a quiz team that competes in a league where the quizzes take place on alternate Monday evenings (excluding Christmas and Easter) between October and May. Or that's how it was, the club where the quiz takes place is closing in April, so we're having to have a quiz every Monday so that we'll complete the season before the club closes. I've been in the team for just over seven years now, having been brought in when one of the original team members died. In the early years I did have a sense of being second best, of not being a full part of the team - but that has long since faded.

Every year we've finished first or second in the league. In recent years more often second than first. Always second to the same team This season we've usually finished each quiz as runners-up. To the same team. Yesterday we tied for first. Not an outright win. Second best.

What's in a name? (2)

When I posted "What's in a name?" a few days ago I had entirely forgotten that I was about to have another outing as part of an ad hoc quiz team. The quiz was last Saturday, the team was my wife, a friend of hers, the friend's partner and me. I looked the other way as the inevitable "what should we call ourselves" came up. The two ladies had spent the day in Sainsbury's supervising Girl Guides who were packing people's bags to raise money. My wife (I think) suggested "The Bag Packers" as the team name. Was I the only one who noticed the nuances of the name, with the suggestion of back-packers and carpetbaggers?

The strange mark on my arm (2)

I had an appointment with my GP today. I showed him the strange mark on my arm. "Oh that's a scoobydoo" (well he probably didn't actually say "scoobydoo"). "It's dermatalogical". I said "So it's nothing to worry about then?". "No". One beat, two beats, three beats. "But come back straight away if it gets any bigger".

So on the one hand reassurance, but on the other hand obsession with the size of the mark. And fear.

Why is nothing ever simple? (2)

It all seemed so straightforward. Move a Photoshop catalog from one PC to another. Two days later and numerous blind alleys,it still isn't working.