The opposite of sad

We moved this week. After months of sorting. Loft archaeology revealing the mundane, treasure, in between and more (shite). Filling a skip, sneaking bits out. In out, in out, shake it all about. A dance of memories, devastation, detritus and love.

Loft work was nothing compared to saying goodbye to people in a series of planned and impromptu gigs (thank you). A lost Saturday afternoon at the farm where Connor worked with teaching assistants Big Sue and Tina, and Fran. Nosh, drinks, karaoke, walks and hang outs. Family, friends, neighbours, colleagues and ‘strangers’. Boundary smashing in the best possible ways. It was almost too much when Tom’s mate (the half ear on the cover of my book) came round for a shower because their boiler was broken.

Twenty years is a long time in one house.

We met with the paramedic lead who attended the unit on the morning Connor died. He got in touch a while back through a friend of Rosie’s. A decent, clearly brilliant health professional who remains ‘stumped’ by what he and his team experienced. The carelessness and disregard layering that day and everything before it. Overshooting the Slade site entrance with no direction. Banging on the door to be let in. A decorator outside oblivious to unfolding devastation. No answers in response to key questions repeatedly asked around how, when and what? Or why?

A never (ever) event.

[Howl]

We also received the draft tv script about what happened to Connor. I can’t say much more other than reading it felt right. Reference to the London bus tour Connor and I did as not sentimental or perfect but ‘the opposite of sad’ stayed with me. Yep. It was just this.

With belongings in storage, we called into the cemetery. For a bit more sorting and tidying. And headed up north.

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