In grief, I can't worry about Donald Trump, let alone Ringo Starr

Grief is an unnerving companion.

- John Crace's

Monday Continually nudging me off centre. Even though the world appears much as it did before my mum died, everything feels slightly out of kilter. Not quite right. Sometimes I even have to double-check the chair is where I thought it was. The physical merges into the metaphysical. Most of the time I feel OK. I tell myself that it was the right time for her time to die and no one can feel cheated at 101. That it is a blessing she is no longer subject to the terrors of her dementia. That she is at peace. I just get on with my work and spend time with family and friends.

At other times I feel overwhelmed with sadness. Consumed with regrets for the things I was never able to say, both before and after the Alzheimer's took hold.

In the meantime, we get on with the death admin, of which there is surprisingly little. My sisters have registered her death and organised the small cremation service, but there is no house to pack up and sell. We did all that years ago when she moved into the care home.

I felt in something of a daze as we went through my mum's belongings. Now I regret some of the decisions I made. I found a small folder of random letters I had sent her, mostly ones I had written to her as a child. I found them too painful to reread, so I chose to throw them away. I wish I had hung on to them. As a mark of respect both to her and to my younger self.