Beautiful breakfast with d and Ma and some of Wendy's family. Home from Kilworth House via a quaint Tudor village called Ledbury, where we stopped for the kind of lunch you can only do when you're in a whirlwind of hedonism, promising to reform in the morning. Butternut squash soup, and a cream tea. Yep, cream. Yep, tea. Yep, get over it.
Got home, chilled out for a ridiculously short amount of time, and then got dressed for a choir performance. Ma turned up in her car to drive me up to the chapel in one of the higher bits of the town.
"How you doin'?" I asked.
"I'm dead," she said. I sniffed.
"Looking good on it," I decided.
Turned out she'd had a letter from the Department of Work and Pensions - which she'd had to contact following the death of my Dad. "Thank you," it said, "for the information regarding the death of..."
Then it printed my mother's name.
My mother's name.
She smiled. Sweetly.
"I'm going to talk to them Monday," she promised, with the kind of annunciation that makes kings and presidents shudder.
"Zombie apocalypse," I muttered to myself.
"Hmm?"
"You're going to insist on a resurrection, I'm assuming?"
She looked at me, smiling horribly.
"Y'know, I just might..." she said.
"So," she asked. "Back to perspex boxes tomorrow then?"
"Back to perspex boxes in the morning," I confirmed.
"Me too," she agreed, encapsulating a sense of resurrection and new beginnings that's left over from the wedding.
So here's to tomorrow.
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