46) My new life, challenges and little rays of sunshine. Welcome to my life.

 It's been three weeks today since dad passed away and I've been busy.

I have been round to the house - the mountain, almost every day. I go at the weekends and I go after work. I fill my car up and when Freddie is full, I take everything to the local recycling centre.

In Cardiff we are only allowed 26 visits to the recycling centre every year. For those not familiar, a recycling centre is the council tip where you are expected to put as much into recycling as possible and the remainder can go in a skip for landfill. Nobody wants to put everything in landfill and so people try really hard to comply. 

There are separate skips (dumpsters) for wood, metal, small electricals, carpets and bed quilts, hard plastics, paint, paper, books, clothes (wearable), garden waste, bottles, cardboard, batteries, oil, fridges and freezers, televisions and probably a few I have forgotten about. Not every recycling centre has skips for all things - car tyres and plasterboard are banned at our local one.

The thing is there are many things in this particular house that I don't know what to do with. So far I have found 37 odd shoes in ONE ROOM. Most of these shoes have no wear at all on the sole, suggesting they may well have been new and never worn. Now however, they could be anything up to 40 years old. Two were partnered up so they can maybe go to charity. However, I have no idea how long they have been there - some of the shoes split the top from the sole the minute I bend tested them. Sadly those have to go to landfill.  Even though they are some vile sort of open toe men's sandal, I'm sure there are SOME men out there who would wear them. So should I take them to the charity shop?

Ant has started getting nervous if I throw anything out, saying he could have them to wear. I know Ant is almost 60, but I don't think wearing things the wrong size, and the style of a 95 year old who never had any fashion sense to start with. Ant has said this about shoes, jackets, sweaters, anything and everything. I have started going round while he's out.

There are 4 televisions - the old huge box type ones in the house. I eyed one with a view to flinging it out. 'That's brand new.' said Ant.

'But you cant get them to work on a modern tv system,' I said - the new ones are all digital.'

'You can use them with a Digibox.' said Ant, confidently.

'But you can't buy a Digibox any more can you?' I asked him, getting a little frustrated but trying not to let it show.

'No.' he agreed. 'But I have three spare ones, and that tv is brand new.'

I gave up for the time being. I never anticipated Ant to have issues getting rid of stuff. However, to keep the peace, I've told him many times I won't throw anything out he wants to keep.

I moved on and picked up an old chocolate wrapper and a satsuma net bag from the top of a pile. @Ant, Where's the bin-bin?' I have started calling the general waste (non recyclables) bin the bin-bin - as opposed to the paper bin or the plastics bin or the garden bin or the glass bin.'

'Errrrrrr.'

'Ant, you know the bin where you put normal rubbish that you can't recycle. You know - the BIN bin.'

Ant reverted to his generic reply when he doesn't know what he is expected to say, 'I don't know really!'

'Ant!, Where do you put like plastic wrappers and sweet paper and old tissues and bits of string and that sort of stuff?'

'Erm, I don't know.'

'ANt, are you telling me you and dad never had a bin? Loke a bin to put rubbish in...?'

'Errrrrr no. I don't think so.'

I realised he was probably right. They never threw anything out. any tissues or paper would go in the open firm in the living room, anything else just got put between a box or in a bag and put in some nook or cranny. The black bin was NEVER put out. I located the black bin about 3 months ago - there were two of them a large one and a newer smaller one. The larger one wasn't a current issue and he should have returned it to the council. Both bins were full of wood pieces, I assume for the fire.

I found an old bucket by the fire and explained to Ant how we would use it as a bin.

45) Just when you think things are going well. Mums are always right.

                             That carpet has finally gone. My mother was right after all.

The dreadful carpet of my youth

Its final destination :)

Many years ago. 1977 or thereabouts, when I was just a child, there was a carpet, which was delivered, brand new, in some sort of plastic wrapping, to my house. 'Where'd you want it mate?' said the carpet delivery bloke. 

'Ah just put it on the stairs for now,' said dad. 

'Not being funny mate, but be careful you don't leave it rolled up too long or you'll have trouble laying it flat,' Oh if only he'd known.

'I'll be fitting it this afternoon, just leave it there will you.' Dad never took well to being told what to do.

School-aged me was quite excited. a new carpet, which smelled fresh and lovely and would make our home look lovely, like everyone else's home, was about to be laid in our house. a lovely gold and brown swirly design with autumn flowers and a nice fresh springy feel to walk on. Mum was excited. Their current flooring was just the wooden plank floorboards with a rug by the bed. How lovely to have a nice bedroom carpet at last in their bedroom.

For the time being, dad said, it would be ok rolled up on the stairs 'until he had time to clear a bit of room to lay the carpet himself at the weekend.

The weekend came and went. 'We'll both be dead and buried before anything gets done with that bloody carpet,' said mum, under her breath.

The week turned into the following month. The month turned into the following season. Winter was now fast approaching. 'Can we see if we can get the carpet fitted before the winter?' Mum asked.

'We'll see.' dad said, as he disappeared into the garden to cut the grass and do a spot of weeding.

Winter turned colder, the ground was hard and frozen. Mum bought bed socks and a warmer nightie. 'Can we have the carpet down before Christmas?' she asked, trying to sound casual.

'We'll see.' said dad. 'I have to do this damn tax return or they'll fine me.' He went outside to sweep up some leaves.

Christmas came and went. It was a cold winter in 1977.  Mum got more bed-socks for Christmas.

Spring arrived and the carpet was still rolled up on the stairs. I started school and had new friends round. What fun to slide down the rolled carpet. Dad said not to play on the carpet as it was brand new and we'd ruin it.

The following Christmas came and went. Mum asked again about the carpet. 'If I clear some of the stuff, can we put the carpet down in the bedroom?'

'I've got so much to do. you just don't realise what I have to do.' dad said to her. 'If you keep nagging I shan't do the damn carpet at all!'

Mum tried to clear the stuff herself. we kids helped. It was fun making a space for the carpet by moving everything to the sides of the room.

Dad came in from the garden. He was furious. 'Don't you move my things or I'll never be able to find them again.' he snapped, storming back out into the garden in a strop, to cut the grass.

1978 ended, as did 1979 and 1980 and a few more years too. My school friends would come to visit and always went a little quiet when they came in. 'S'cuse the mess, we're decorating.' said the young teenage me, quoting my mum word for word with what she said when guests came around. As if that made everything OK. I didn't think it mattered that there was no painting stuff in sight, no dust sheets, Mum said it, so it was so.

1983 came and I'd noticed, when I'd been invited to friends houses, that they had single colour beige carpets - imagine how that would show the dirt. They had to take their shoes off when they went in their own house. They must be very strict, I thought, because they had NOTHING anywhere hanging about. No papers on the table, no boxes of stuff all over the floor, nothing on the stairs, no piles of papers on the table.

At my house there was stuff everywhere. It was normal; everywhere there was an open space, it was filled with boxes of  'stuff'. The carpet was still on the stairs, still rolled up, although the top edge, where the bag was open, was getting a little frayed.

1984, an old friend came round. 'That carpet's still there.' she said, in surprise. To be honest I'd become blind to it, like the wallpaper, or the stair banister, it was now a fixture. We were all used to having a narrowed stairway. Mum had stopped asking about the carpet.

1987, the polythene bag on the carpet ripped and bits were hanging off. We decided it was best to take it off as it gathered the dust and was making the place look tatty. There was no way the carpet would go in the bedroom now. There was FAR too much stuff there now.  Mum had a little pathway to her side of the bed through the piles of dads stuff. Mum had more going on in her head than that bloody carpet. She was starting to forget things.

1990 The carpet would emit a plume of dust if it was knocked while we went past. The end was very frayed. Mum was taken into the local mental health hospital, where she sadly passed away in 1994.

I moved out to my own place the year mum passed away. I needed everything for my new flat, including a new carpet. I could have cut that carpet on the stairs to size and made do with that but I never mentioned it. Nobody had a swirly carpet any more. I certainly didn't want that one. I bought a room-size pale grey remnant for my flat and fitted it myself the same day.

In 2005 I met a friend from school in the local pub. We were both grown up now and had a good catch up over a few beers. 'You haven't still got that carpet rolled up the stairs at your dad's house have you.' she laughed. 'Do you remember? It had some sort of 70s swirly design on it.' 

I laughed too 'Haha, course not,' I lied, and changed the subject.

2013, dad fell off a ladder and went to hospital. He'd broken a bone in his back falling off a ladder in the garden and had to wear a brace. He wasn't allowed home from hospital until the house was deemed 'safe'. The carpet on the stairs had to go. Not wanting to upset him, even though I was now an adult, I spent 6 weeks organising the house and struggled through the clouds of dust to put the damn carpet in my old room - now full of everything which had lined the corridor and stairs. The carpet cracked loudly when we bent it in half to fit in the bedroom and left a trail of black rubber backing.

Christmas Day 2025, dad fell and broke 3 ribs. The paramedics said they were sorry but they'd have to report the house as a safeguarding issue. Dad was again not allowed out until the house was 'safe'. There was no longer any room to move things about. It took 4 of us 30 minutes to clear enough space for the paramedics to get him out of the house. Dad wasn't allowed home again until the house was safe. I was quoted £2600 to clear one room and the hallway - everything would be cleared and then put back in and a mattress would be taken for disposal. The carpet was buried.

I worked like a dog and did the work myself. Nine weeks later he was allowed home. He was home for 3 months and then he fell over again and went back into hospital. It became clear he wasn't coming out again and he passed away age 95 in July 2026. 

While he was in hospital I took the initiative to start the clearing process and on August 1st 2026, I had cleared enough space that I could get to the carpet. It took its final journey and as you can see from the photos, it is now in a recycling centre.

Mum was right. Mums usually are...

44) OHIO. Why normal doesn't work here.

 

The thing with having a social media account or a blog or whatever, it attracts comments. Most of which doubtless are made with only good intentions but it makes you think sometimes... sunshine you have ABSOLUTELY NO IDEA. 

Apart from the 'why don't you just bin the lot' brigade, another example is 'use the OHIO method'. No I'm not off on holidays, the last holiday didn't go too well if you recall.

Anyway OHIO is Only Handle It Once. It was suggested I do this with each piece of paper from the house  This of course makes sense in a normal world. However, in my world...

1. Get the bit of paper from on top of a dusty heap of many many other bits of paper.

2. Sneeze

3 Readjust pile so the rest of it doesn't avalanche on you.

4. Get a wodge of papers

5. Find somewhere to put the wodge so you can sort them.

6. Remove obvious rubbish like newspapers, old Lidl magazines, junk mail, receipts, envelopes and flattened cereal boxes.

7. Put remaining papers in a fresh pile and add more to the pile to take away to sort at my own house in my own time and away from the dust.

8. Carry new sorted pile to my car and drive it 7 miles to my house. Take it around the back for the wond and sun to remove more dust.  Wait an hour.

9. Sift pile again, removing bank statements from envelopes and removing junk flyers and anything over 5 years old.

10. Take filtered statements into house and sort into 25 piles of different companies and put in poly pockets.

11. Put all back in plastic box A to Z to deal with tomorrow.

12. After you have done steps 1 to 10 many many more times, you will have a vague picture of what you're dealing with and only then can you summarise whether you have something worth chasing. If you do, then chase it.

The first time you pick up keys say a bank statement dated 2011, you have no idea if it's a current account or one that has been closed 10 years. You must wait.to see if you have a more recent one. You can't deal with it the first time you touch it as you don't know if its relevant or not.

43) I found an interesting thing - Are all Hoarders in denial?

 

This has no date on it but it cost 7D

A bit of a shoe. Knowing him, he kept it in case the leather came in handy.

Alcohol - sealed and very old. I don't really drink so have no idea what to do with it. Apparently you can't pour it down the sink as it's flammable.

Me in my old bedroom - with the insane crazy idea it may be nice to sleep in there again, just once... (not any time soon - obviously!)

Since dad passed away last week, I've been over to the house twice and taken a Freddiefull away each time (Freddie is my Nissan Juke - once he's full, it's time to leave.)

I have unearthed a few interesting things so far and I'm sure there will be more to come.

Today I found a questionnaire/application form which appears to have been given to dad following the incident in 'Diary of a Hoarder's Daughter' when dad fell off a ladder and the TV company got involved to help me clear the house so he would be allowed out of the hospital. It appears somebody thought it may be a good idea to refer him for therapy/counselling.

Dad has filled the form out himself in his own handwriting. The form is a Treatment Plan Details Form. dated and signed by dad on 25th August 2019.

Q: What's brought you here now?  A: The film/TV company people.

Q: Any presenting Issues? What do you hope to achieve from therapy?    A:Proof that my hoarding is not a serious illness but due to other circumstances.

Q: Any other background you'd like to share or think might be relevant to our session... this is a free area, there is no obligation to complete.   

A: There are various reasons some of which are listed below.

1) I am a serious DIY person and have been for over 70 years. This leads to keeping many items which non-practical people would throw away. Almost everything has more than one use.

2) Most people move house a number of times during their lives so have to have a good turn out each time. I have lived in this house for about 59 years!!

3) I made 3 or 4 television sets shortly after the end of the war when TV was expanding. firstly from ex radar parts and then from scratch - this is history, I can't throw them away.

4) My wife started Alzheimer's Disease when she was about 42 and died at 59. I have kept many of her things and a special dress she made. These things bring back memories of her - again I can't throw these away.

5)I have invested in the stock market since I was 18; this generates considerable paper work and share certificates which I find amongst old newspapers. I have to look through these myself as other people helping me clear up might throw them out.

I would like to point out my own theories...

1) DIY is a good hobby to have, however when you can't find your tools because you have not put them back where they belong as it vital in any hobby, buying more because you have mislaid the original and then mislaying the new one etc, does not help clutter levels.

2) Most people also go through their stuff on a regular basis even if they're not moving house and they throw out old, broken stuff and junk so they are not living in a house full of junk.

3) Three or more TV's would easily fit in an attic if they mean that much, unless the attic is already full of other stuff. Nobody would mind just a few tv's although so far we have found 12 and only 3 of which are hand made.

4) I'm not sure which dress - possibly one in a wardrobe which you've not been able to open for 32 years...

5) Paperwork eh? So maybe it would have been a better idea in the first place, to have a filing system that worked - even a filing system at all - rather than putting them on a pile of papers on the floor and putting papers on top and more stuff on top, many many many times and then leaving the pile for 40 years or more to gather dust, thus looking like a pile of discarded newspapers. You find them amongst old newspapers because you put them there in the first place. Other people may well throw them out because no reasonable other person would expect a share certificate to be in the middle of a pile of old newspapers. Why weren't the newspapers thrown out anyway? So finally who is the one who has to sort this HUGE mess out - someone you never trusted to touch anything, never appreciated or respected but someone who WILL do this task. Even if it takes her five years. Furthermore she has to do it all alone - many hours by herself, sorting until midnight and beyond, every night for years - because this can't be explained to anyone who is offering to help for an hour or so.

Denial at its finest - not his problem - not his fault.

Now please excuse me while I go beat up a pillow and go scream in the woods.

Don't worry - I'll be OK.

42) The Telephone Call in The Night Nobody Wants. 15th July

 Lying inside a 60ft narrowboat, trying to get comfortable on a sofa which transitioned to something which vaguely resembled a bed, but felt like a heap of lumpy bricks, I'd finally fallen asleep for the night. 

My daughter, Robin was next to me as my other half had 'given up trying to sleep on the bloody thing' after the first night where he kept rolling downhill into me, giving me about a foot of space and resting various sweaty bits of his body parts on me all night. Robin, being the kind soul she is, offered him her bed. She was.next to me.

Pitch black on the boat except for the LED of the smoke alarm and the standby light of the tv which we hadn't worked out how to switch off.  I'd more or less settled my left elbow into the gap in the cushions, beaten my pillow into shape and had finally drifted off to sleep lulled by the gentle movement of the boat. All was silent. 

1.48am, I was woken by my phone sending a chill down my spine. Who on earth would call at this time of...

And I knew.

The call everyone dreads, one I'd been anticipating for over a year; When will it be? What will they say? Who will it come from?

I was about to get my answers. 

'HOSPITAL' my phone said; I'd programmed the number a year back as all calls from the whole hospital come from the same number.

Help!

I fumbled trying to slide the green button to 'answer,' my hands like jelly. 'Hello.' I tried to sound calm. I failed.

'Hello. Is this Izabelle?' said a young, gentle, female voice.

'Yes' I said, scrambling to my knees on the bed to hear her better. Shit, shit, shit. Robin leaped up from her sleep to hug me. In the quiet of the boat she could hear everything. We hugged, we listened.

'It's the staff nurse from ward C7,' she paused for a moment. 'I'm so sorry, but Dad has just passed away!' 

She explained she'd been at the desk outside his room, where he'd been for the past 3 days and she'd noticed his breathing had changed so she went in to see and 'he'd gone'. 

Just like that, he was - gone.

What now? What're you supposed to do when you're four days from your car by boat and about 40 miles away by road, its 1.48am. Even if I was to get a taxi at that time I didn't know where to look for one or where to send it, and was the marina where my car was parked even open? Not only that but there was also a 3 hour drive home as well. And he was already dead.

I thanked the nurse and hung up.

What was I supposed to do now?

Robin and I went outside for some air - it seemed the right thing to do - we grabbed our quilts and sat on the front of the boat, in the pitch blackness of the English countryside night, with a million stars reflecting off the inky water. We sat, we hugged, we cried.

After just over two hours we went back inside and watched the dawn rise over the water through the window. It was a sunrise dad wouldn't see. He'd never see any sunrise ever again. 

And there was nothing I could do.

There was no-one I could tell at that time. Ant had to be the first one I told. Such news travels fast, so I couldn't risk telling anyone until Ant knew and he had told me many times he didn't want to be told in the middle of the night as he has difficulty sleeping.

I rang him at 7.30am. 'Hi Ant, How're you?'

'OK at the moment, until you've rung.' he said. He knew without me saying a word.

'So sorry Ant, dad's gone.' my voice crumbled.

'Ah!' he said 'OK'. There was a short silence. 'I've finished cleaning the freezer now.' 

And we moved on.

At 2.30 in the afternoon I developed a bit of a stomach ache, mild at first, but it wouldn't go away. Fifteen minutes later I was sending my daughter to check the bathroom was free as I needed to use it FAST. 

I'll spare you the details but it was awful. I lay on the boat bathroom floor which usually I avoid at all costs, while my stomach decided by which route it wanted to expel its contents. It chose both. The sweat was pouring off me and I felt like death.

I staggered out of the bathroom and collapsed on the bed. Robin found me and I told her I thought I may need to see someone. I thought at one point I was going to follow dad out of there. The thought that some bright spark may have decided it was a good idea to have a joint funeral for me and dad gave me the will to fight.

Robin called 111 and they decided to send an ambulance. This meant pulling the boat to somewhere identifiable so the crew knew where to go.

Meanwhile, I was sat on the loo. Boat toilets are vile at the very best, all the waste gets stored in the bottom of the boat in a tank, which usually needs draining every week or two depending on usage. The smell is vomit inducing and this one right then was worse than most. As I flushed again in an attempt to leave the room to lie down, it decided that was the very moment to become full and the level backed right up to the rim with a mixture of all the contents from the tank. Vile vile vile. Then as a gastro bug goes, I had to go again. Not having the strength to hover, and having no other option... I'll not distress your imagination any more.

The Marina staff were amazing and let us moor the boat by the entrance, they sent word to the reception for when the ambulance arrived and let us use the pump out device even though they were officially closed. Boat pump outs require a £15 token for 8 minutes pumping.  Five minutes is usually enough to empty a tank but they give eight on the timer to be sure. 

The guy doing the pump was shocked how much flowed out. He said there was no way the boat had been emptied from the previous hirers. It was still emptying when the timer ran out at eight minutes.  That was OK though, current crisis averted and we only had a few days left anyway.

The ambulance came about an hour later - by now I had no idea of time. They took my stats and declared me 'in all probabilities not about to die', despite my fears. They said they wanted to take me in ideally, but it was probably not in the best interest of the seriously ill patients at the hospital as I was probably contagious. They left, telling me to drink flat Lucozade and lots of water and leaving me in bed. The family confined me to the one room and spoke to me from the other side of the door for 24 hours. They thought I'd somehow ingested some food poisoning bug or maybe some canal water.

I felt like I'd lost an argument with a horse.

Great!  Happy holidays all.

I've had better holidays.

41) Is this it or is there more 13th July

 

Since June last year, I have been reluctant to book any holiday or go anywhere for fear dad becomes worse or passes away while I'm away. Family and friends etc can see the pressures I have to deal with and all have said I need a break. I've missed the ski season now so I can't do my main stress relief thing by hammering down a snow covered mountain. As I have a family of 5 adults (2 in uni), holidaying abroad is expensive. So, for the past 5 years we have hired on of the narrowboats above for a week and cruised down one of England/Wales many canals. Kids love it (OK they're young adults) and it's family time we don't often get together. It's relaxing as the boats only do about 4mph and all there is to do is chill and read and operate the occasional lock while chugging down the canal - perfect! Usually!

Everyone told me - Iz! you should go! So, with a lot of thought (well at least a bit of thought), I went. After all he'd been diagnosed over a year ago, what could possibly go wrong?

As it happens - a lot!

It works like this; We hire a narrowboat somewhere in advance. It is usually 6 berth, this is fine for the whole family - 4 real beds and a convertable pull out jobby when you convert the couch... like sleeping on bricks but hey ho, - go with the flow - it's only a week. We drive up to the marina - usually 3 hours drive away, with 2 cars - we need 2 cars with the luggage and the family. This year there were 6 of us as our son took his girlfriend along.

We park the cars for the week, load the boat and off we go for a week of gentle narrowboating. We sail for 3.5 days, find a wide bit, turn around and sail back the same way, 3.5 days. Simple.

However...

On day 2, I got a text, forwarded from one of the ladies at dad's church. The minister had been to see dad and had given him the last rites, prayed with him, and recited a psalm - sounded a bit - well a bit of a big step. The minister had asked for details to be forwarded to me and Ant. Again nothing from the hospital - wasn't this a huge step?  I worried. I Googled. People can have the last rites but remain alive for a few weeks or even in some cases recover completely. It didn't sit right with me though. We were now about 25 miles from the car and pointing the wrong way. 

What if...

I couldn't speak to mates - I was on a boat with very little signal for my phone and even less wifi. My family told me to chill. 'It'll be fine.' they said.

They were wrong!

40) Panic! 8th July 2026 The final countdown

Dad's Bedroom. There are 3 bedrooms in his house, and 2 bathrooms, a kitchen,  a study, a shed. a garage, a greenhouse and a huge living room... ALL like this.

Before I move on to today's post the picture above is what I looked at yesterday. That is I looked at it then shut the door. It is his bedroom, where he slept, every night. Much as I don't think he will ever be able to live there again, there is still the little distant niggly gremlin in my head 'What IF he wants to see his house for the last time... and I've thrown something important out?'  I wasn't able to make a dent. I half think he is so close but Mr What IF keeps keeps creeping in. I left it as it was and tried to make a dent in the living room.

The company I work for occasionally take all of it's staff out for a team building meal out at a local pub and Wednesday 8th July we were all out when I got a call from the hospital. I went outside to take it. The man introduced himself as the doctor who'd been looking after dad. He went on to say he had been on holiday for the past week and since he'd come back, he was shocked at the rapid deterioration he'd noticed in him. He wanted to know when I last visited. I told him 3 days before. He asked had I noticed - I had.  Having finally got dad's doctor on the phone I was reluctant to let him go. I said I would come to the ward right away to speak with him.

I left my team meal, telling my colleague who had come outside for a cigarette, what had happened so she could alert the others. It was a cursedly hot day and I opened both car doors to cool the car down before I got in. I then drove off with my rear car door open. I sure am losing the plot.

After I safely got to the hospital, I tried to speak to the doctor. He stepped out from the desk he was at and we stood in the middle of the corridor, doing some kind of weird waltz, as nurses and staff and patients and the coffee lady and all-sorts rushed past in all directions - 'scuse me, sorry, sorry, can I just, sorry, just a minute', while he told me he thought dad only had weeks to go, not months and they were going to transition to palliative care and put dad on a morphine drip to manage his pain. The doctor was softly spoken and also had a foreign accent which I struggled to understand. The most difficult conversation, in what appeared to be the middle of the medical equivalent of the M25.

I went to see dad after the conversation with the doctor, he wasn't really there in mind. He was gripping the side bars of the bed and clearly in pain. He had the adult nappy thing they had put on him since he had been admitted, and which I'd assumed was for emergency leakage. He was trying to get out of bed over the side bars and I wasn't sure I could stop him, a dreadful smell appeared so I asked the nurse if we could help him get to the toilet. She looked at me and said 'Oh no - he isn't allowed to do that as he's too unstable. I'll change him now.' She scuttled behind the curtain and I heard him shouting in pain. I couldn't watch for his dignity and for myself.

I sat with him afterwards and he tried to pull the sheet over himself. I helped him but he didn't seem to know what I was doing.

About ten minutes later, Ant arrived with one of his friends from the church who had taken him is as he doesn't drive. I briefly greeted them both but left quickly as I was so upset.