Dear Mum

Dear Mum,

It's pointless me even typing this because it's not like you're ever going to read it, is it? I just feel like I need to sort of kind of talk to you and this blog post is the closest I can get to doing so.

I'm pretty sure you'd have no idea what a blog is. And you wouldn't know what Facebook is, or what the heck Twitter is about, and you'd question why so many people post 'selfie' photos on a thing called Instagram. (You hated photos of you, which is why there aren't a whole lot of them in existence.) But I'm willing to bet that if you'd had an iPhone (an iPhone is like that Nokia 3310 you used to have but five hundred times better) you'd be liking photos of Marti Pellow all day long.

It's ten years today since you went. A whole decade. Sometimes it feels like ten years and other days it feels like just last week.

A lot has happened in ten years, Mum. Amongst other things, I had a Vespa (don't shout at me; it's gone now) and I met a fella called Chris and I moved to Cambridge (don't worry, I secretly cheer for your beloved Oxford in the Boat Race, even though it's all a load of toff nonsense) and we have a cat and a guinea pig. No kids, just like I always never wanted. Our house is tiny but it's ours. I don't see many people (this must be how you felt when you moved from Oxford to Southampton for Dad's work) but unlike you I'm an antisocial git so I get my fix of humans on the internet. I still speak to Zeb and Sharon and Elaine and they all miss you very much.

Dad's doing OK and he's back living in Abingdon now. I lived there for a bit with him before I moved to Cambridge. Sally and Paul are fine. They had a little boy called Dylan and he's just about to turn eight. Robyn starts secondary school in September. How insane is that? Emily is living in London and she's the manager of a lovely restaurant in Covent Garden. You'd be so proud of them all.

It really makes me sad when I think of what you've missed out on. All those people you knew. Some of them have gone too. Both Herbie and Grandma are no longer here, and nor is Buster. (We loved that crazy cat, didn't we?) Like you always said, life's a bitch. I also get annoyed about all the daft stuff you've missed, like hours and hours of EastEnders and police dramas and books and films and music and the internet. So much has happened in ten years. So much.

Oh, remember my shed? I've got one here in the garden now. It's not as fancy as my original shed but I'm tarting it up slowly. The day you went I decided I'd give the beads a go. As a job, like. Well, ten years on and I'm still going. I'll never be a millionaire but I love what I do. I wish you could have seen all the beads I've made. There have been thousands of the buggers. You'd have definitely nabbed a few for your collection.

It's Easter weekend. It's early this year. We always did a bit of gardening on Easter weekend, didn't we? I planted some seeds yesterday and I've just ordered some freesia corms. You loved freesias. I'm going to buy some fresh ones today, if I can find some. I always try to get freesias on this day. You know, to remember. I get you flowers on your birthday, on Mothers Day and on this shitty day. Oh, and I always get you a cyclamen at Christmas. Such silly, daft flower-based rituals, but I have to do them so you know I haven't forgotten. Which is totally ridiculous because you know I don't believe in any of that God and afterlife malarkey.

Anyway, this isn't doing me much good. I've got a big snotty cry mess all over my face now and the neighbour is bound sure to knock on the door any minute to collect the Amazon parcel that I took in for them earlier. I'd best go and sort my face out.

Ten years, though. Where the heck has that time gone?

I miss you, Mum. We all do. Every day.

Love you always,