I finally bought new socks this week. Since Col died I have been wearing his. I haven’t bought socks for myself in about five years. I have been wearing his in all that time. And that’s grim because this was a man with fungal infections. I was only shamed into buying socks now because the holes in the heels and the toes have been too apparent in soft play centres where socks are an essential piece of kit. I feel close to Col by wearing his socks. Odd? Yes I know. I also wear his jumpers to bed still when I feel the need and I have only just thrown out his toothbrush. It took me ages to get rid of his razors and the old blades with his bristles on. Throwing stuff that is so personal, with the last mark of the person you loved on them, is the hardest bit. Well one of the hardest bits. I can decide whether to get rid of his pants, his shirts, his suits but something like a razor with his actual remnants on? Hmmm. Hard. Socks with the worn bits where his feet made the holes? Difficult. His toothbrush which once brushed his gappy teeth within the mouth that told me it loved me? Almost impossible.