This ‘coffee and croissant’ rating is for pieces that are meatier than a nibble, but not as rich as a main. A soup starter perhaps? It’s a piece to prompt some gentle thinking or give a subtle griefy insight. I think this is appropriate reading for any setting (e.g. in your coffee break at work or on the tube back home).

My first Sunday back home in Brighton was particularly floppy. Instead of the romanticised image I had of myself swimming in the sea and reading on sun warmed pebbles, I felt particularly restless. The dreaded not-knowing- not-doing- doing-nothing, triplet.

Dad asked if I wanted to join him for a sea swim … something which would probably have paired quite nicely with my restlessly indecisive state. However, the thought of subjecting myself to 10-degree water felt cruel (but refreshing?). Maybe I’d have a lovely endorphin buzz afterwards (but then wouldn’t I be doubly more tired in the evening?!)

Ignoring the voice in my head that said I should go outside and seize the day - I shut all the curtains in the sitting room and put on the Carlos Alcaraz documentary. I felt utterly exhausted.

Part of me had anticipated a Sunday crash. The start of the week had involved a lot of packing and organising to move my things from Leeds to Brighton (and soon on to London!). I was also in my luteal phase (the most tiring of the four). However, there was a distinctive griefyness about this funky feeling. A familiar spike.

Could it be something to do with coming back to a house full of mum memories, when Leeds has been so … well… mum memory free, my friend asked at dinner a few days later. How unobviously obvious!

Home - in a mostly welcome way - is a little affronting on the grief senses. Each room is reassuringly very much the same as when Mum was alive . Depending on my grief sensitivity levels, I’ll either charge around the house like normal, or find myself stopping to look at certain pictures of Mum in a state of disbelief. An ‘how on earth are you not here’ astonishment.

This need to slightly re-configure my grief senses, has made me think about the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles (bear with me). Specifically, all the gear they wear for the different situations they find themselves in. In Leeds, I’ve probably been walking around like quite a naked turtle. There are few chances of encountering griefy cues. No Mum reference points, no places we’ve been before, no-one who knows about Mum and who sees Mum in me…a weird space to be!

Brighton on the other hand, is full to the brim of Mum! I’ve had to completely rethink the outfit. Add a bandana, put on a few knee pads. Steel myself - ever so slightly - for the Mumness of it all. That’s not to say the external griefy cues are bad (let’s ignore that part of the analogy). They are just powerful.

Anyway - back to the floppy Sunday. After two episodes of the Carlos Alcaraz documentary and some tea and toast, I felt perked up enough to make dinner. Naturally, this mood change made me slightly disbelieving of the way I had felt a few hours earlier… have I just been incredibly lazy on this beautiful sunny day!? Why did I miss the chance to do something as wholesome as a sea swim !? What a waste of an afternoon! (Can I call this grief-lighting?)