Morrisons - you can stick your voucher where the sun don't shine.

In their wisdom the folk at Morrisons have been distributing their marketing mags through the door of unsuspecting folk in the neighbourhood.  The magazine has a £5 off when you spend £25 or £6 when you spend £30.

Dad had one through his door.

Dammit!

It's not the voucher that's the problem, more that I have to take him shopping as he doesn't trust me to go for him, yes I have offered. I can't take him on my own so I take him and Ant as Ant knows what brand, how many and what he may have forgotten.

So, I have to drive seven miles to pick them up. I then have to wait 45m for him to get ready and ask me stupid questions like would I like a box for his shopping (like he's doing me a favour). We then fiddle with his seatbelt and make sure the car door is closed and off we go.

We park, get a trolley for him to lean on and Ant shoots off with it, eager to get the ordeal over with. I call Ant back and give the trolley to dad who holds on to it. They have made a list (hurrah), however, the list bears NO resemblance to the layout of the store so I get my 3000 steps in trying to work out the quickest route.

Dad shuffled off to try to 'spend at least £25 plus a little bit more so we can use the voucher'

They find a stand with reduced Easter Eggs on - 'ALL £1.50' the foot high, neon sign screams for the 200 or so eggs left on the stand, probably because Cadburys has decided to abandon its glass and a half advertising faff and replace it with palm oil, which surprisingly, they haven't advertised at all.

'D'you work here?' he asked the man in the Morrisons uniform. Without waiting for an answer 'How much are these eggs?' He bought 3.

He then shuffled over to the milk 'Which one do we usually get Ant?'

'The blue one.' said Ant, loudly.

'What? he snapped with an evil snarl. 

'The BLUE one...' Ant handed him a blue top milk, adding 'They're 2 for £4.'

'What? he snapped again. Ant pointed to the sign. Dad wrote it down.

I won't bore you with the rest of the intricacies of the shopping trip but it was a good three hours before we all got home. Yes he did hit his £25 but he'd forgotten to bring the twatting voucher, clearly having lost it in the house somewhere.  

I'm keeping my fingers crossed he can't find the bloody thing before it expires or I'll be guilt tripped into going again so he can spend it.

I'm Right! He called me just now. He's found the #*&#ing voucher and it expires on Sunday so he wants me to take him. So on my weekend off drive 8 miles, wait for him as he's never ready then take mim 3 miles back to morrisons. Wait 3 hours for him to faff then take him 3 miles home and drive 8 miles back to my house. Ant will have to come too so 3 people 3 hours 22miles to spend a *&#*ing voucher £5 off when you spend £25. Morrisons I hate you.

Easter - a religious occasion - or not!

A blog about myself, daughter of an extreme hoarder parent, aged 95, who fell over on Christmas Day 2025, breaking 3 ribs. He was in hospital 9 weeks and is now home. He has terminal oesophageal cancer, kidney function issues, asthma, diabetes, skin cancer cataracts and is extremely hard of hearing. Meanwhile his narcissism, and controlling behaviour, downright nastyness and sense of entitlement runs wild. I have some stupid sense of duty which means I’m running around like a blue-arsed fly trying to make things safe at his house and get his prescriptions, take  him to many doctor and hospital appointments, take him shopping and sort out his boiler service, and tradesmen and everything else. I have a job and family of my own. Slowly but surely, I’m losing the plot.

 

I took dad shopping 8 days ago to Morrisons where he bought 5 chocolate eggs. 

I had asked him Why 5 and he said 3 for my kids (in their 20s now), one for me and my partner and one for himself, in case nobody else got him any. I'm not sure where poor Ant came into his calculations.

He's been calling me every few days asking me to pay a bill, get an estimate for work or do something else for him and each time he asks 'Will I be seeing you over Easter?' I've replied I'd see what I could do. I live eight miles away, not too far but I seem to be over there about 4 times a week already and each time is extremely stressful. EXTREMELY stressful. Currently just walking through the door makes my blood pressure rise.

Easter was no different. I went round on Easter Day after he'd been to church to take him and Ant a chocolate egg each.

For the sake of it I asked all 3 of my kids if they wanted to come to visit grandad. They all said an emphatic 'Not a &$&$&$&$ chance you've got to be ****ing joking. Sorry mum No way!'

Having already told them when they were 13/14 that I'd never force them to see him once they turned 18, I had to respect their wishes.

I went alone.

I turned up at his house and gave him and Ant the eggs. 'Happy Easter,' I said.

'Right', he said, looking at the eggs with his judgy eye. 'Right!' The first part of the annual egg swapping was done and he was satisfied.

As far as I was concerned that was it. I'm not a child any more and don't care if I receive an egg from him or not. In fact I'd prefer to just skip all the faff to be honest and buy myself a bar of Galaxy and not have to feel like I'm being judged. However Ant appreciates having a chocolate egg and so we do the egg swapping palaver. 

'Are you by yourself?' dad asked, although it was clearly obvious I was.

'Yes.' I said, although I felt the answer wasn't necessary and was merely a springboard for the speech I could feel him brewing.

I was right 'Well no chocolate eggs for them then if they aren't here.' he said, in a kind of what do you think of that kind of tone.

'OK' I said.

It wasn't the answer he anticipated.

'Well because if they can't be bothered to come and see their grandad at Easter, they don't deserve to be given eggs!' he said.

'OK,' I repeated.

'Well, don't you agree?' he said, pushing his point and trying hard to push my patience.

'Dad, I don't care. Really. If you don't want to give them eggs, it's fine.'

'Right then. No eggs for them this Easter!'

'OK. It's up to you dad. If that's what you want!'

I wasn't playing ball so he needed a different tactic.

He thought for a moment, 'Easter is an extremely important day in the Christian calendar and I think you'll agree they haven't been brought up particularly well regarding the important dates for the church!'

Woah! Now he was questioning my parenting skills. He was questioning my parenting skills... the cheeky twat!

'Dad. Don't start preaching at me. My kids are fully aware of the significance of Easter and all the other dates important to the church. They're all adults now and so it's their choice whether they want to acknowledge and celebrate those dates as they see fit.'

'So why aren't they here then?'

What? What on earth was he talking about - he was clearly just baiting me for a reaction. Much as I was tempted to tell him it was because they didn't want to see him. Ever. I can't say that and feel good about it.

I told him they were in University in Swansea.

'Well if they don't come to see me then they don't get any eggs. I'll keep them here.' He said it like it was a threat or like he wanted me to beg for them.

'Fine!' I said, 'They're all over 20 now dad, they really won't mind about the eggs. It's not a big deal.'

'Right!' he spat, yelling and thumping his fist on the kitchen table as if he was telling me some huge important point. 'I'll bloody keep the bloody eggs and throw them in the bloody bin or eat them myself!.'

'Whatever! I said. I don't care. Keep your stupid eggs, and stop with the yelling or I'm going home.'

Don't you want your egg?' he said sarcastically.

'If it means I have to put up with your attitude and you yelling at me, then no, you can keep the damn thing. I'm going.

When he'd thumped his fist on the table, the egg he was about to ceremoniously present to me (a Maltesers egg), fell to the floor. As I turned to leave before I did or said something I regretted, he kicked the egg across the kitchen floor. 'Don't walk off again girl damn you!' he yelled as I shut the door and left.

Happy Easter Everyone.

22) Hide the Axe

A blog about myself, daughter of an extreme hoarder parent who fell over on Christmas Day 2025 and broke 3 ribs. He came out 9 weeks later... 

                                         Found in a box - newspaper from 1987 - 39 years ago.

Since he came home, he's been calling me, asking about taking him shopping and to his numerous hospital appointments almost every night since I took him home from the hospital.

On Thursday I went for a meal out with a friend after work and went to his house afterwards, even though I'd had a lovely night, his house was about 5m away from the dinner venue so I nipped in.

After pleasantries - me asking him how he was and him ignoring me and then telling me about his problems, I told his there was an antiques valuation company coming to Cardiff in a week or so and I wondered if he'd let me take a few of his items to be valued.

'WHAT!?' he snapped. I repeated myself three times.

'Something about a dog...?' he said staring at me as if I had just crawled from under a rug.

'No dad, I can take stuff to have it valued for you.' 

He carried on staring at my mouth long after I'd stopped talking, with an expression of annoyance and irritation. I looked away; I can't look at him when he does that.

'What d'you want me to do about it?'

Figuring he couldn't hear, I repeated, louder. 'I'd like to have some of your stuff valued by a dealer.'

He frowned and glared at me. 'Why can't you speak to me without shouting. I can't understand when you shout...'

'I tried that first but...'

'When you shout it just sounds loud and nasty and I can't understand...'

'OK dad I'll talk slower for you - the valuation people are comin...'

'Stop mumbling. I don't know what you're talking about when you...'

I grabbed the whiteboard and got my pen out. He flung his hands up in despair; 'Oh DON'T write everything down, dammit what's WRONG with you girl? Just speak properly.'

I finished writing and passed him the whiteboard. While he was reading it, I spoke to Ant, asking him if he knew where various antiques were. Ant had a fair idea, but there were different parts of different pieces all over the house.

While we were talking together, Dad piped up 'Do you remember your Aunty May?'

'Yes. Why?' I asked.

'Well she had a very nasty, malicious and vindictive streak and I rather fear you two may have inherited it!'

Ant and I looked at each other in dismay - where did this come from?

'What d'you mean dad?' I asked him, wondering why he'd say such a thing.

'Well,' he said 'you both have nasty and vindictive traits, and I suspect you have inherited them.'

What the heck? 'I asked for examples, but he pretended he hadn't heard. I asked again.

He threw his arms in the air 'Oh DON'T you start now, I've got enough on my plate. Don't you realise I've just come out of hospital, girl. Why must you treat me like this?' He was playing the victim now, and as for calling me 'girl', well that was never going to end well really.

'Dad, you can't say something like that without examples. Give me an example. What're you talking about? That's a horrible thing to say.'

'See - you're doing it now and you can't even see it!'

Luckily the axe was in the shed as my fuse is miniscule right now. I said, 'I'm not letting you speak to me any more like that. No way! I'm going home!'

'He stood up and shouted as best as he was able to me, 'Don't you DARE leave the room!.'

I carried on walking, and as I got to the main door he yelled 'HERE!' in the way you may raise your voice loudly to a disobedient dog.

I said a few things which I won't repeat here, and went out to my car and sat in it shaking, furious and just trying to calm down before I drove off.  Ant scuttled out, clearly having a panic attack so I got him to sit in the car. He was trying to apologise for dad's behaviour and I apologised for shouting in front of him but I wasn't going to put up with being treated like that any more. Ant said Dad always spoke to him like that. He ate one of his sweets he always carries with him, to calm him down.

A figure appeared at the door of the house. 'Dad wants to say something,' said Ant seeing him there. 

'Whatever he has to say, I don't want to hear it!' I said.

Ant said he'd just check and went to the house, returning shortly after with something in his hand.

'Dad says can you sew up his pyjamas for him by the fly and he needs the legs taken up two inches...'

No words.

21) They have Released him. - Here we go... and the personal alarm system

A blog about myself, daughter of an extreme hoarder parent who fell over on Christmas Day 2025 and broke 3 ribs. He’s currently in hospital thinking he can come home soon... He has terminal oesophageal cancer, kidney function issues, a bladder and a chest infection, asthma, diabetes, skin cancer and he’s 95. Meanwhile I’m running around like a blue-arsed fly trying to make things safe at his house for when he is released, yet being acutely aware he has an uncanny ability to know if anything’s missing and he won’t be pleased if it is. I have a job and family of my own. Slowly but surely, I’m losing the plot.

                                                    The Telecare device (similar)

They have finally released him. I collected him from the hospital on 24th Feb and delivered him home.

On the way home, he asked why we were going the direct route home as he wanted to go to the shops, although he'd not thought to mention this to me before.

Ant told him we'd already done the shopping. He didn't understand - how could we possibly have already done it, we being mere children?

Certain things had to be in place for them to release him - a personal alarm he'd wear on his person, either like a watch on his wrist or as a pendant round his neck. Should he fall and need help he'd press the button on the alarm and the operators call the house, if he's in the garden, to alert Ant, if Ant wasn't there, it would call me.  I'd then have to go to the house from wherever I happen to be, just to check he's OK and hasn't pressed the button in error. I live 25 minutes away.

The hospital had told him originally needed to speak to a dietician first, but the doctor overrode this, saying he'd already seen 3 dieticians and had ignored them all.

When we got him home, he walked into the kitchen, not noticing the HUGE amount of work that had been done in the house. He sat down and I showed him the helpline device. 

'Be VERY careful you don't press the button in error,' I said. I put the device on his wrist.

'How does it work?' he asked, poking it.

WAHWAHWAHWAHWAHWAHWAH The alarm went off, very loudly. I ran into the living room to tell the operator we were very sorry but he must have accidentally pressed it and set it off. They were very understanding and cancelled the alarm.

He wanted to know where the main unit was - he went into the living room to see it. It had been plugged into the only empty plug socket by the door, and was sitting atop 3 boxes of junk behind the door. 'Well it's no good there is it?' he said. ' What if I need to tidy up a bit and move the boxes?'

Really?

On front of the unit was a BIG button lit up in red. You couldn't miss it. I told him if he was in trouble in the house he just needed to press the button to speak to someone in the control room. He went to grab the unit. 'What is it?'

'DON'T touch the button Dad,' I said, 'Or it will go off and alert the...'

WAHWAHWAHWAHWAHWAHWAH 

'What's that noise?' he asked. 'What the hell's going on?'

'Dad, you pressed the red button. I said not to...'

'What red button? I don't know anything about a red button. What's going on?'

🫤

That evening Ant called me - Dad had been going for a lie down at about 8pm and had set off the alarm from his wrist device.  He was upstairs in bed and he couldn't hear the alarm - although it is a LOT louder than a house smoke alarm. Ant had sorted it with the operator but so far Ant hasn't left the house and left him alone yet.

                                                                                            

20) They're going to release him. Help!

 

A blog about myself, daughter of an extreme hoarder parent who fell over on Christmas Day 2025 and broke 3 ribs. He’s 95 and currently in hospital thinking he can come home soon... He has terminal oesophageal cancer, kidney function issues, a bladder and a chest infection, asthma, diabetes, skin cancer. Meanwhile I’m running around like a blue-arsed fly trying to fight the hoard and make things safe at his house in case he gets sent home, yet being acutely aware he will have an uncanny ability to know if anything’s missing and he won’t be pleased. I have a job and family of my own. Slowly but surely, I’m losing the plot.

                                                          Above - Before House entrance

                                                                            After 4 hours

Dad rang me, Monday evening 16th February at 9pm from the ward reception desk.

'Izabelle. Izabelle? Is this Izabelle? Yes? Izabelle?...'

'Yes. Hello Dad.'

'It IS you. Is it? Izabelle?'

'IT'S ME DAD. Yes Izabelle.'

'Ah! OK. The good news is they think I'm OK to come home...'

If that was the good news, then what was the bad? I didn't ask.

'OK. When are they going to let you out?'

'Well they didn't say...'

Either way I had to go round the hell-house and finish the final bits. I went there when Ant was out and managed the above in 4 hours. The blue bag is recycling which is full of junk mail so when that's gone it will look even better.

Everything from the bins - recycling and normal, had to come back to my house as his bin day is Friday and anything in the bins would be removed and re-absorbed into the house.  Another Freddie half-full with all of that stuff.

Ant and I went in to see him on Tuesday. I do ask myself why I go to visit him as he's still the MOST obstreperous man I have ever met.

I don't know where the nurses get their patience. His nurse is so lovely, but she says he's quite a character and she thinks he's adorable...

19)The goalpost at my wit's end has moved.

A blog about myself, the daughter of an extreme hoarder, who fell on Christmas Day 2025 and broke 3 ribs. He’s still in hospital thinking he can come home soon... He's 95 with terminal oesophageal cancer, kidney function issues, asthma, diabetes and skin cancer.  Meanwhile I’m running around like a blue-arsed fly, trying 'make things safe' at his house as he wants to come home. The paramedics said it was their duty to report the house situation, citing safeguarding concerns. He tells me on every visit not to throw anything out and he has an uncanny ability to know if anything’s missing. 

I have a job and family of my own. Slowly but surely, I’m losing the plot.

A wind up clock I found in the hoard. 

 

Friday 6th Feb 2026

Went to the house after I finished work, to collect a lot of large items which needed to go to the skip - old duvet, 1970's bar fire, a load of Radio Times magazines from 2001 onwards, an old weighted blanket of Ant's, a broken chair, a whole stack of cardboard, 9 old paint pots where the paint had turned into a block of solid matter, a tin of quality street from 2018... you get the picture.

An item we had found under a pile was the clock above.  I have no idea about antiques but I think if a collector wanted this (It's a wind-up clock), it would be best not to touch it.

Freddie stank of the hoard but the tip was closed so he'd have to go on the drive for the night and I'd get rid of it in the morning.

I rang the hospital Friday to see what the result of the camera down the throat found. I was told they weren't able to fit him in Friday - it would have to be done on Monday. He had also missed his ears being syringed though as the camera was deemed more important. Neither were done.

Ant visited dad on Saturday so I gave myself the weekend off. This is the time of year I usually reward myself for surviving another year by flinging myself down a mountain all week. All my ski friends have, kindly sent me MANY photos to remind me just what I'm missing. Cheers guys!

I usually book in about September, however due to dad's diagnosis, I thought it best not to book this year until the last minute. I'm happy to go alone or with friend/s. Then when he had the fall on Christmas Day, I gave up the idea as I thought he would need care when he came out. Of course I could have gone on any of the past 6 weeks since then as he's been safe in the hospital. That's the name of the game - keep thinking he will be allowed home any day... and putting my life on hold. Also going round to tidy the house on all my spare days off, with no actual goal, no guidelines and nobody to help.

I visited him on Monday 9th Feb 2026, after work. He's finally stopped hallucinating about the local lake being poisoned by his joint of out of date ham and killing all the fish, swans, geese and ducks. He's stopped the one about the FBI chasing him. He's stopped the thing about the BBC wanting to do a documentary about him and he's stopped about the new patients being recruited by the FBI to 'earn a few bob' to spy on him.  He is almost back to 'normal'. I use the word loosely.

He is still asking me to have his earwax removal booked in as he missed it on Friday even though he wad actually in the same hospital.  I rang them this morning and they said the next appointment is in March but they couldn't book him as he was down as a no show. I explained the circumstances and finally they got me a cancellation for 24th Feb - 2weeks time and told me if he missed it again they would take him off their records.  I guess that even though he's in hospital and the ear place is in the same building, I'll have to take the day off work, drive 14 miles round trip to make sure I take him myself from the ward to the outpatients dept.

At least I had some good news for him. I'd tell  him the next time I saw him, a few days later.

Ant rang me that evening, jubilant that he'd sorted a date for the ear wax removal. He told me he'd been to visit dad that afternoon and the two of them had walked to outpatients to 'sort this damn issue out.' They'd negotiated the corridors and managed to book for Feb 24th! Right!

I went to the house yet again to try to finish the work. The problem is everything takes so much time. I am fully aware the UK NHS system is under huge pressure and conscious he's bed-blocking. I'm pulling out all the stops to get the house in order so he can come out. The housing officer said it doesn't need clearing completely - but there needs to be enough room for him to move about freely. As dad has given strict instructions that NOTHING is allowed to be thrown out (apart from the spare 27 year old mattress in my old bedroom). Everything lining the hall, stairs, kitchen and bathroom should be put in the study and my old bedroom so both rooms need to be partially emptied and stuff put back in to a higher level - so more fits in.

After he'd been in hospital 4 weeks they sent a cleaning/clearing company round to see what needed doing and give a quote. The chap was very nice and sympathetic and said he'd seen this type of thing before. 

Two weeks later nothing had been received regards a quote, the doctors were wanting to send him home but were aware the house wasn't suitable yet. I chased them and the cleaning bloke apologised - could he come round again. I met him at the house again and he said he had an official waste clearing licence but as he had a van it would cost £135 just to take a van load to the tip - however they weren't allowed to take anything which hadn't been agreed by the owner and so removal of the single mattress (which was all dad agreed to) would be £135. This was the charge from the tip. I said in that case I'd stuff the wretched thing in Freddie and take it myself - which I did, the same day. The total quote was about £2570. But had to be redone as I'd already done a lot of the work.

We were told there was a council grant available for these type of circumstances, however if the house owner could afford it they would be asked if they could pay for it or if not then pay something towards it. I went in and explained this to dad THREE times. Explaining there was a grant available if he couldn't afford it etc but he would be asked if he could pay all or some of it first.

The 2nd quote arrived and he was quite concerned about it and demanded I read the letter the minute I arrived at the ward. He said he'd agreed to pay some of it but wanted to discuss it with me.

On reading it I realised I'd now done 90% of the work already over the 7 weeks he's been in bed. I told him so.

'Right!' he said, 'So can you bring my cheque book?' I repeated I'd already done most of the work anyway. '

So I don't need my cheque book?'

'No dad, you don't.'

'Right!  Did you bring me some clean socks?'

18) Am I a doctor - Er no! Tumour or Baked Beans?

 A blog about myself, daughter of an extreme hoarder parent, who fell over on Christmas Day 2025 and broke 3 ribs. He remains in hospital thinking he can come home soon... He has terminal oesophageal cancer, kidney function issues, asthma, diabetes, skin cancer and he’s 95. Meanwhile I’m running around like a blue-arsed fly trying to possibly make things safe at his house in case he gets sent home, yet being acutely aware he will have an uncanny ability to know if anything’s missing and he won’t be pleased. I have a job and family of my own. Slowly but surely, I’m losing the plot.

One Freddiefull

Thursday 5th February 2026 (Six weeks in hospital).

Today I spent 5 hours at that house tidying and clearing. I came out of there stinking dirty, sneezing and with an aching back. However, before I went home, I needed to go visit the hospital.

Dad has now been in hospital 6 weeks today. Fair to say he's pretty unhappy being in there. He says he wants to come out and complains a LOT. He is able to sign himself out, should he wish. He knows this. However if he does, he'll get no help whatsoever from social services. No home help, no home nurses, no nothing.

As it's the NHS, and I appreciate they're really struggling right now, things take a looooong time. Dad doesn't help himself by complaining and moaning about anything and everything. His dinner is too hot/cold/spicy/mushy/tasteless. His tablets are not given at the right time - his water pill, he says MUST be given two hours before or 30m after (don't quote me) food, otherwise he needs to do a sprint to the bathroom. He can't sprint!

When I arrived at his bedside at about 3.30pm, he told me he had done a sit down protest at the nurses desk today because he didn't know when his ears were to be syringed and he can't hear. Of course he's frustrated, I get that. Finally the nurses took him to the ear dept and after a lot of searching, they said the appointment would be tomorrow.

I was a little concerned to see he had a kidney bowl by his bed with a watery foamy fluid in it. I asked if he was OK. He said he couldn't get anything down his throat and try as he may, everything he ate or drank came straight back up. He'd only managed to eat 9 baked beans from lunch. This alarmed me more than it did him. This is what happened back in June 2025 when he went to A & E. Then they put a camera down his throat, it wouldn't fit so they put a baby camera down and found the 'nasty mass'. He finally had a stent fitted to hold the cancer back and after a few days was sent home. As he's 95 they can't operate and they can't treat it.

So when the same scenario played out again on Thursday, I went to see the nurse and politely explained that I knew he was probably complaining too much but I thought this time it was possibly serious and I thought his stent was either blocked with baked beans or cancer.

20 minutes later, a man in a sweatshirt and navy trousers appeared at the bedside. 'Are you a doctor?' he asked, in a strong foreign accent. I'm not, and I told him so.

'So you're not a doctor' he said. I got the feeling this was a little accusatory. I repeated I wasn't. I asked who he was as his attitude was a little... unexpected.

'I'm the doctor.' he said.

Right!

He spoke to dad and asked what was happening and dad explained.

'OK. You are to have no more food and nothing to drink until tomorrow morning, when we will send you for an endoscopy. We will put you on IV fluids until then.' The nurse came and took away his uneaten dinner.  The doctor used my white board to explain to him and then he left.

My eyes started prickling, was the cancer growing through the stent? Was this bad news? I fought the tears back until I got to the car. Visiting was almost over anyway. I hugged him and said I'd call the hospital the next day for an update.

I bit my lip and held back the tears until I was in the corridor. I could do with a good cry, a release. Sometimes we all need a damn good cry... and the tears wouldn't come. Nothing! I can't figure this out - when someone says the wrong word to me the tears pour out. Now when I need them to come, they refuse.

I rang the hospital at 3pm the following day. They said he was still waiting to be called down.

I rang at 4pm and they told me he wouldn't go down until Monday now as the unit had been busy. He has to be on iv fluids for 3 days as it's now a weekend. He apparently didn't go to his appointment to have his ears syringed - they didn't know why.

Now I'm numb. Tears won't come, emotions are everywhere.

I took another box of paperwork into my house to sort. In his house there are MANY 300+ boxes stacked high with stuff - each time he goes to Lidl, he takes a stackable fruit box to carry his shopping in - they're free and he can use them in the fire when he has finished with them (only he doesn't - he stacks them full of stuff - all over the house).

Some things I found in this box; 17 rawl-plugs and a drill bit, a receipt from 2014 for a toaster from Morrisons, a photograph of me from 1972, an old sock, 8 wine bottle corks, various letters and bank statements from 2014, 8 letters to him as executor for my mum (who passed in 1994). 2 letters addressed to my mum dated 2017, an ASDA magazine, a Lidl brochure, 2 Christmas cards from myself and my kids I don't remember sending - at a guess 10 years ago, an unopened marketing CD dated 2017, an original share certificate, 2 tax vouchers and a lot of ripped out pages from magazines about nothing in particular, a single flat moccasin slipper, an empty and cracked cotton reel and some hairy string.

There are about another 299 or so of these boxes.

A call from the hospital from the Adult Services team told me he would be allocated a social worker on Monday.