Will it never end?

No, it all goes on and on, and thus so does the turmoil, the rage and the tears. Every time I think I am recovering a little, I get walloped by the slings and arrows of outrageous executors and solicitors, and I would not mind dishing a bit out in return. Oner of those clubs all studded with very nasty spikes would do very nicely, but they are probably all locked up in the museum. Alas.

I am neck deep in papers, correspondence, and looking for things which were in my hand, on the floor, or very close by only 30 seconds ago. Much more than 30 seconds is needed to re-locate whatever it was. Such happenings make me wonder whether I am becoming Alzheimic, or whether it is merely the accumulated and undischarged grief, rage and stress provoked by the wicked stepfamily and their minions.

When I asked the solicitor about my being reimbursed for household expenditure for the period up to Dr P's death, I was assured that there would be no problem - just let them know - and similarly that the cost of the wake would be borne by the estate. Fine, although I would happily have paid for the wake. My family, friends and I went out and bought quantities of food and drink, and I meticulously subtracted the amount for anything not consumed at the wake. That has now been paid, after a mere 13 weeks.

However the solicitor says he is 'instructed' to get the particulars of the other expenditure claimed. This was household expenditure paid by me, ACCORDING TO OUR USUAL ARRANGEMENTS, because Dr P was no longer capable of doing anything himself, and, what was more, was in hospital and then the nursing home, soon and unexpectedly to die. I do not have all the receipts, just the note of the costs, and I am certainly not going to itemise every little detail of perfectly legitimate expenses. Like buying takeaway coffee. Or taking Dr P chocolate milkshakes. It is none of their business. They knew perfectly well what our lifestyle was like, what food and drink we had, how numerous Dr P's medications, and our normal routines. I will forego the money.

So I expect that the wicked stepdaughters, in addition to their purloining of 90 per cent of their father's cash assets, will now be enriched by their hanging on to a sum which should go to me. Well, they can have it, as far as I am concerned, and may they all rot in Hell. In fact, right now, I hope there is indeed a Hell, and I must consult my Dante to see into which Circle they should all be put. We had a little discussion at the Italian class last Thursday, about where certain other people should most appropriately be placed, and I suggested they should be cut up into as many bits as needed, and a piece placed in each location, thus excruciatingly exacerbating the torture. I tell you, in this day and age Dante would have been a scriptwriter and film maker of horror movies.

Maybe I will calm down in due course. I wrote to my BIL last night, and am in the throes of writing other stuff as required, losing relevant documents as I go, and busily finding them all, re-labelling them and re-filing them, in the probably vain hope of not falling into this state of disarray ever again. I dare not so hope. Having entered here, it has been abandoned. And not because I am wicked, either.

It is probably time I went and bought myself a takeaway coffee and a takeaway spinach something for dinner.

The ball of dark blue wool has not turned up, either. And the telephone is crackly and fuzzy, and I will have to do something about that too. Drat and darn. Or words to that effect.

Someone just rang up about solar energy, and wanted to know whether he was speaking to the owner of the house. I said No, and looked forward to the likely explication of the situation relating to the owner of the house, but he hung up on me! Small mercies.

I worked off some of my rage by a further discarding of things relating to the stepfamily. I may dump a whole lot of their photos in the garbage bin (it gets put out tonight). Or I may soften and send it COD to the solicitor.

Why I am so fixated on trying not to be horrible or bad? I know why, it is my Catholic upbringing and conscience, and its emphasis on charity. The possibly more fortunate stepfamily grew up without such inhibitions. Possibly genetically immune?