My dad married a woman because we needed a housekeeper. No wonder his face paled when she draped around the lounge door in her crimplene nightdress — Albert, are you coming to bed? This woman was not my mother. After she stopped being my housekeeper, Dad had to find other things to occupy her time like flat green bowling, hiking in the Lake District, Methodist Ladies Group, and not watching things on tv I wanted to watch. It was a practical partnership — my dad grew vegetables then she boiled them to death. Their semi-detached house smelled of grey cauliflower and two litter trays. When this woman who wasn’t my mother died, she was buried in the plot next to my brother who she didn’t like. When the man who was my dad died he was laid on top of her. One could say she finally got her wish, and didn’t. After I die, I plan to be planted in the plot next to my brother but on the other side. I hope to be in an empty box with my ashes scattered in those favourite places I do not own.