What do you know.  Turns out that three deaths* in just over three and a bit years is my limit.
Turns out I'm a lightweight that way.
Turns out a retreat under a metaphorical duvet was needed after the second deathbed, and the second body, and the second funeral and the second choosing of coffins, and readings and cremations and it all just brought back everything - and I didn't even have the bloody pills I was prescribed after the dog died.

But let's skip to the good news. There's a limit to how long I can spend in a self pitying fog.

Which is lucky because The One Remaining Aunt (TORA!) has also had her problems. My mother has been visiting her in her dreams.  No really.  TORA is quite insistent on this.  And because TORA is not the most sensible person on the  planet, well maybe she is psychic, so you know, hang in with me here.  Anyway, apparently my mother is annoyed, and exasperated, and trying to tell TORA something. She's shaking keys, and walking away.
And she's doing this on a quite regular basis.

TORA reckons she's telling us there is another will. Without saying anything to TORA, I suspect that if my mother is creating in psychic space it's very likely to be because her remains are still out at the crematorium and she wants to go home.  Actually, come to think of even if there is no such thing as an afterlife, my mother's remains were definitely overdue for collection from the crematorium.

This is a long preamble to me saying I collected my mother from the crematorium.

For those who have never held human remains, let me tell you know, they are surprisingly heavy. And it's impossible not to feel the person with you as you hold them.  So it  felt only right to fasten my mother's urn into the back seat with  a seat belt. What you going to do? Put your mother in the boot?

Then the problems started. I didn't know where to put her.
She couldn't come back to mine, because I still have W's ashes and they hated each other in life.  In death there would be one unholy conflagration. Cheesetown could be annihalted.

So she had to go back to hers.
 But where at hers?

It seemed too Norman Bates to leave her urn in her old seat in the living room. A wee bit odd putting it in the window.
Odder still to put her urn on her bed..What you going to do? Tuck it in?
She couldn't be in the kitchen.  We still use that.  That would be wrong.
And what kind of person would put their mother in the hall cupboard? With the shoes? When she only had one leg?
And she couldn't go in the garden; it's going to rain till Christmas

Sigh.  She's in the back of the car for now. I'll figure this out later.

*If you count Ned, which my god I do.