Mum dying last year happened so fast. To this day, I still don’t think I have digested it. If that’s the right word.

I eventually got off my procrastinating arse, and actually went and picked up her ashes from the crematorium. I put this off and missed at least two appointments to collect her. This is not like me. At. All. I turn up to appointments. I make sure I’m on time. And if, for some unforseen reason I can’t, I call. But twice, I put the appointment totally out of my mind. Not even realising until days later that I failed to show.

And poor Mum. Sitting there, alongside Bob or Margaret or June. Waiting for me to come and get her off the shelf. And look, I know that’s not her. I watched her die. I know she was no longer with her body. I get that, but we’ve got stuff in store for Mum. Stuff she will like.

So, on a sunny day in April, on my way to a gym class, I kept my appointment, and Maddie and I went in and picked up the plastic container with the engraved "Betty Joan Clarke" silver plate on the front, packed in what seemed like an inappropriate gift bag, and put it on the front seat and drove away.

I saw another psychic yesterday. Granted, the second one I’ve seen in 6 months, but this one, this one was different. Everything she said was 100 percent SPOT. FUCKING. ON. Like the fact:

Jack is a firecracker and will need major boundaries – Check.

Sam is very sensitive, yet can be distant and is smart in the areas he is interested in. Check.

We want to and will sell our house soon. Check.

I like to write. Check.

My mother passed on recently. Check.

All this without one ounce of pre-admission from me. You just can’t pluck this shit out of the air.

So, with that, she told me that mum was very close to me. With me, so to speak. And that Mum was frustrated. Frustrated it was all taken away from her so quickly and she wasn’t ready. This of course panicked me. I mean, the afterlife is like, forever, I don’t want her upset over there. The psychic assured me, she’s fine, she’s with her dad, my grandfather, who she missed and adored immensely. I wondered where her Mum was, who died when she was a young child, but I never asked.

But she told me, and hey, look, I am one of the worlds biggest sceptics, so please don’t think I’ve become a hippy freak over night, that whilst I held back my tears, she couldn’t move on. Not just yet.

And believe me, I’m not deliberately not grieving mum. I’m not deliberately, not losing my shit and sitting in a corner for a week, wailing. I just haven’t had the urge, or is it the time, yet.

By my very nature, I’m not an emotional person. Or a crier. I’m the strong one. I make sure everyone else is OK. And I recognise the fact that this is not always healthy for the body or mind. But it’s me and you can’t change the way you react or act, overnight.

So, this Sunday, Mothers Day, we, my family and my brothers, are going to meet in Shorncliffe, my Mum’s most loved town. This is where she was married. This is where we returned to some years ago and she pointed out her past to us and gave us a glimpse into her life before her life with us. A life before it got complicated I guess.

This is where we will take her ashes and walk to the end of the pier. And we will release them out to sea. Her best friend and sister-in-law tell me she loved the sea there. Not here so much, but there, yes .

Consequently, I reckon, this week, I may just take a little break from blogging.

Every day, we should be kind to one another, but on Sunday, the designated “mothers day”, if you’re mum is close, give her a squeeze, she’s pretty special.