I spent yesterday dusting and carefully packing away my husband's large selection of books.
I wasn't angry or upset, I just wanted to clear the bookcase in the bedroom, clean it of twelve years of dust and repack it with my own , much more meagre selection of books.
All of the dogs and Albert lay around the mess in untidy heaps watching the action.
I'm not going to discuss my marriage here so please don't ask me anything, but I did wanted to talk about the peace and memories such a pastime brings to a person.
Books on politics and history , of queens long dead, of wartime and Art Deco whodunnits, the Mitford sisters and of Russian ballet dancers, all were wiped clean of soot and boxed awaiting sorting and tucked away behind them, in between them , were the flotsam of decades of ordinary life.
Train tickets dated 2007 to Bangor, a clock key, old wage packets , a half flattened stuffed platypus bought from Sydney Zoo. A few letters dated from when people actually wrote letters, a Christmas card list, dried flowers fallen out of a small family Bible ( a cutting from my Grandmother's wedding bouquet) my old Charge Nurse ID badge and a lady's handkerchief with a monogrammed K in one corner .
The pile of detritus grew as the books were packed away.
And I worked away in silence save for the chirping of the sparrow flock in the honeysuckle