I popped onto Instagram earlier for a distraction from reality. I had a quick swipe, old habits die hard , but stopped as quickly as I had started.

It’s all the same ; London fashion week, or whatever fashion week it is this week. I lose track?

You need this , you need that.

To be completely honest you don’t really need any of it and I’ve been to London Fashion Week. It takes you longer to get from show to show , than the actual shows themselves! It’s fun don’t get me wrong … but it ain’t all that.

It all just seems so trivial, so very, very trivial.

The most precious things I have discovered at my dad’s place while sorting through his stuff did not cost the earth.

They are the beautiful basics.

The photographs . Albums and albums full of them , and the letters that I wrote home to mum & dad while I was away studying at Lincoln.

Boxes full of memories , that trigger memories. Mostly happy memories but with a few that pull a little too tightly on the heart strings … heart strings that are already over -stretched .

In-between the sadness which followed us around each room M & I have reminisced over those old photos. There have been a few “whose that’s“ and we have belly laughed at my handwritten letters. Ones which I have also complimented and admired. If I say so myself my writing is fooking neat !

It is also very apparent I really was quite bonkers and some of the stories I relate back to my parents are completely that! I can’t believe I told them some of the stuff I did but I guess we always were a very open and honest family,

I won’t always feel like this.

I hope not anyway.

It’s just now , it’s all very raw.

All very trivial. … You know ??

I am navigating a new chapter of my grief.

Chapter 1 was mum.

Chapter 2 is my dad

I ask M whether I am now considered an adult orphan ?

I wake up, I paint my face and I paint on my smile. I tell myself it’ll all be ok.

We put flowers in make shift vases. Our Lounge is currently over-run with beautiful bouquets , from even more beautiful humans.

We talk to coroners and funeral directors and we make plans we didn’t envisage we’d be making just yet …

We pack away a life well lived into black bin bags.

The world goes on as normal and we sit and we grieve in our own little bubble

The world goes on like any other day … despite ours falling apart