Folding washing

I was folding washing tonight. It's not that unusual that I need to blog about it btw, it does happen on a regular basis, but it had been an ok day. One of my better ones, for certain.

And I'm pulling stuff out of the basket and folding it (size 12 trousers people. Did I mention the UK 12?) and not really looking at what I'm doing, like you don't when you're watching tv and doing something dull.

Then I pulled out a pair of Rich's work jeans. They are filthy with ground in oil that I will never get out. I pulled them out, I folded them, I stuck them on the sofa to make a pile of his clothes, and then I carried on folding stuff, until I saw them again, and realised that he would never wear them.

And I hugged them, I sat on the floor and bawled my eyes out in a snot-producing cow-noise-making kind of way.

The sense of loss, of anger at that loss, not at any one person in particular, but just at the universe in general for taking away the man who we love, the man who loves us, who completed me, who planned babies with me, and holidays and a future, who was going to adopt the AC, who loved doing things as a family together. And I wanted that back.

So I phoned a friend, who I hadn't spoken to for a long time, and sobbed and snotted down the phone for a while, he explained the situation to a colleague who covered for him, took his lunchbreak early so he could talk to me, and just listened whilst I cried and railed.

SiM has done that for me so many times over my Uni years, over the years in between. He just listens, and hugs me, and he's having a crap time at the moment in some ways, so we put his world to rights a bit as well.

But folding washing got me. I can't not fold stuff though. I have to go through all his clothes at some point soon and *deal* with them. I have to go through all his stuff and *deal* with that. There are boxes in the loft from him and the She-Ex that I will *deal* with.

And if folding washing is this bad, how bad will all that be?