I had a blood donor appointment booked for the first week in July, but I had an email cancelling it on Thursday, with apologies. So I looked on the app and found an alternative venue, fairly local if not as convenient, on the same day. On Thursday, I had a text cancelling my appointment. It didn’t say which one it was, so I was a bit puzzled – but looked on the app and the new one was still there, so I guessed they were just being thorough. Today, I had a letter in the post, cancelling the same appointment. I’m sure there’s a pun in there somewhere, but I haven’t thought of it yet.

The house is chaotic. Squiffany and I have been turning out. The further dining room is the worst, as it has the contents of the strongroom in there, not the items that need to be kept in there but packing materials and items of furniture. Russell put his big kneehole desk in there, thinking he’d use it as an office, but he never did, unsurprisingly. I certainly won’t. I’ll get rid of the desk, one way or another. it’s too big and I’ve nowhere else to put it. There’s also a nice little Edwardian escritoire, which looked good in our last house but there’s nowhere to put it here. So that will go. I’m eyeing up a few other items that I just don’t need or want.

I’ll be away next Saturday, but Squiffany has her eye on some cupboards and will turn them out. Today, we also swapped two chests of drawers, which I’m pleased about. The one in my bedroom is big and solid and rested on the floor (it has no feet, I don’t mean others float) so was difficult to shift when a bird fell down the chimney behind it. It was the chest that Tim used and I hadn’t emptied it, so we did that too, removed all his shirts that I hadn’t previously taken out of his wardrobe and took a dozen or so bin bags of clothes down to the clothes bank at the village recycling centre.

I was too tired from emotion to do much more once Al arrived, but he and S brought a couple of things I wanted into the house from the workshop. I’ve not done much since, but had a long bath this evening and a sandwich for dinner. And there’s just been a great clap of thunder and I’m going to bed. Goodnight.

Wink went to London yesterday, to watch the tennis at Queen’s Club. She had bought her ticket two years ago and had hung on to it ever since – the friends she’d been going to go with had cashed theirs in, but Wink is persistent. She was also lucky in the Wimbledon draw and has got two tickets for the second Monday, so we’re going together – first time for me. She’s booked into a guest house the night before, with car parking so pfft to rail strikes.

I announced we were going out to lunch, so we did. With my vague bump of direction, it’s always wise to put on the satnav, but it took us a different way from last time and it’s one of those villages where a post code gives a wide area. So we were slightly lost, a couple of hundred yards from our destination. I really should let them know that clicking on the route on their website takes one to a similarly-named place in Kent., more than three hours drive away instead of twenty minutes.

I picked up my phone every time a message came in, but it was nothing important. Inevitably, I was away from the phone for an hour or so when the email I was waiting for came in. But as soon as I saw it, I printed it and phoned my neighbours at the Rectory, to ask for a witness to my signature.

So, I’ve signed the contract and posted it. I’ve done my part. Still quite a lot to do, in fact, but not in relation to the sale of the house. It’s up to the purchasers and the solicitors now.

It’s the 86th anniversary of Russell’s birth as well. So the bottle of local Earsham Charmat Rosé that we drank was in honour of him as well as Tim. No wonder I feel confused. Wink and I both had fish and salad planned for dinner, so combined our menus and ate outside on the lawn, it being a mild and warm evening.

Tomorrow, Squiffany is coming to help with more turning out. On Sunday, I’m meeting Tim’s sister, niece and great-niece in Norwich and we’re going to the cinema. Then I’m going to look after Perdita on Monday. I don’t stop running. Occupet extremum scabies, as Horace put it (that more or less means, devil take the hindmost; last one is a rotten egg).

Eh.

I’m not sure how much I’m likely to post, I feel as if I’m shutting down and talking about it won’t help much. Though, as this is a record as much as a place to engage with people, I do feel I’ll regret it if I don’t keep up with events. I feel as if I have to conserve what communication I’m capable of, to do what I have to.

I went to Reading last week and, with the help of Tim’s in-laws, Al and Phil, everything I wanted to keep was removed. On the Saturday night, we had a lovely dinner with friends, I couldn’t quite believe that I was spending my last evening there cooking but I’m glad I did. The one person who couldn’t come on Saturday visited on Thursday for wine and a chat. I really do love and value my Reading friends, who have been so kind and supportive to me over the past months.

My house and workshop are full of Stuff that needs a home. I have my list and Squiffany and I will plough through it gradually, sometimes with the help of her kind parents.

After a conversation with a friend, in whom I confided about a specific matter, I had something of a meltdown on Thursday night, which I’m not over. I’m lying low for now, but I have now posted a very forthright letter to a (not very) professional who’s not been doing their (very important) job, in relation to the matter I confided. It’s posted, the die is cast.

Dear friends, of many years’ standing, have been in the area for a few days and we met for lunch yesterday. Asked where they were staying for the night, they acknowledged that they didn’t know yet. To their surprise, everywhere they’d tried so far was fully booked. So of course I swept them home for the night, it was lovely to have more time with them. Sadly, Lynn is losing her short-term memory and, though still the delightful, entertaining, intelligent woman she always has been, she asks the same question many times and, if you leave the room, she forgets you’d been there. Her lovely husband is a great raconteur and the silver lining is that she enjoys his stories hugely, as it’s the first time, as far as she knows, that she’s ever heard them. Wink and I fielded her repeated questions with effortless patience, we all know it’s not her fault.

Contracts might be exchanged tomorrow, with completion on the 24th. I’m relaxed. I’ve done my part. If it takes longer, it’s not going to inconvenience me, but of course I’ll cooperate completely.

Polly bantam is getting frailer. She eats and drinks well, but can’t move at all easily. I now lift her down to spend the day on the ground, rather than feed her up on the perch, which she can’t flutter down from. I don’t know how long she can manage like this. I’m considering putting her in a crate overnight, so that she’s safe but isn’t able to fly up to the perch, where she can barely hang on. Poor old girl.

Bantams still seem to be the focus round here. It’s been Polly, the last few days. She’s got mobility problems, like the Queen. She doesn’t walk very well. We trimmed her claws, but she still hobbles and she doesn’t always bother to come down from the perch. So Wink and I take her a handful of corn and a bowl of water and she seems to appreciate the attention. It’s evidently done her good, because she was out and about all day today. All the same, I’m not sure whether she’ll survive her next moult – she always moults very heavily and mopes for a few weeks and, last year, I thought I was losing her. But then the feathers grew back and she perked up again.

We went out for lunch with Al and the family, which was really lovely. Squiffany came over yesterday to help me with turning out – this is a project that will last weeks of Saturdays. The whole house hasn’t been ‘done’ for a while and it’s overdue. I’m going to be bringing in some of Tim’s possessions, so I need to get rid of anything that isn’t wanted, to make room. I was rather dismayed, a few weeks ago, to find a whole bag of shoes in a drawer and wondered why I hadn’t simply thrown them out? Although, when I investigated further, most of them weren’t badly worn, there was just some reason why I wasn’t wearing them any more, at least not then. One pair, almost new, had hardly been worn at all and they were too small for me. I can’t remember them and can only assume I was given them by someone else whom they didn’t fit either. Others had the wrong heels, but were in good condition and very nice quality. They’ve gone to the Scope bin at the village recycling, they’re absolutely good enough for resale at a charity shop. And I was fairly ruthless with the contents of the bathroom cupboards and so on. I also did All The Ironing on Thursday, which was three laundry baskets full and took me all afternoon, with a final hour in the evening. Al dropped Squiffany off on his way to work, at 6.30am on Saturday, which was quite disconcerting. By the time we stopped for coffee, I felt as if I’d already put in a day’s work. But I was pleased with what’s been done. I’ll be away in Reading next week, so I’ll leave a list. It’s the laundry room, larder and back lobby next time.

All sorts of festivities locally, which I haven’t joined in with at all. I can only be sociable in fairly short bursts and I went out for a Jubilee tea party on Friday in Norwich, which was enough.

It seems that I’m no less batty. I wrote four letters this afternoon, which I wanted to get in the post as soon as possible because of the double bank holiday. The post is picked up from the village post box in the morning, which would mean Saturday at earliest, whereas the one in town goes at 5.30 pm. I hope the letters will reach their recipients for Monday. So I got them all into addressed envelopes, got out the stamps, took them out and put them in my bike pannier and cycled in. And when I arrived and was about to post them, I’d only stamped one of them. So I had to cycle home and start again because – well, I don’t know. I suppose I’m just distracted.

Three of the letters are ones of condolence, to the wife, son and daughter of our former Rector Ian, who died in the night. It was expected, but dreadfully sad. He was very much loved and respected and was only in his early 60s. The fourth was Tim and Viv’s marriage certificate, which my buyers’ solicitors insisted on receiving, to ensure that they actually were married. They’ve seen her death certificate, probate and will, which have her maiden and married names, but they were insistent. So I had to send off for it, which has taken three weeks. But there it is. All boxes to be ticked.