asks a care assistant what happens about funerals. She says the home handles all that. He writes: asked about funerals. Told not to worry.
The fourth of March: he asks the manager directly and mentions Harling and the plot. She says she will look into it. There is nothing after that entry for two months.
The eleventh of May: he asks again. He is told that without a relative it will be a local authority funeral and that this is perfectly dignified, which it is, and which was not what he asked.
The second of July: he asks whether he can pay for his own. He is told he would need somebody to arrange it.
And then, in the August, in handwriting that is noticeably worse: Nobody will do the ringing up. I cannot do the ringing up.
That is it. That is the whole obstacle.
A man of eighty-nine
