I’ve been using my mum’s car for the past week, mine being off the road after it started “groaning”.

My mum’s a terrible hoarder, the type of person who cannot throw away an empty juice carton. Her car is a reflection of this personality disorder – another place to store, squirrel and gather. It drives my dad bonkers but, they’ve been married now for 50 years, so she’s not going to change now.

As a thank-you for letting me use the car I decided to clean it out for her, knowing that she would never get round to it – or have the stamina or willpower. I started with the boot. Inside it looked like one of those units on the TV show Storage Wars. What gems – or should that be germs – was I going to unearth?

My gast was flabbered at the toot she keeps in there: clothes – some on hangers, most simply screwed up; shoes for all occasions – flats, heels and wellies; tins of food (she couldn’t find a place to store them in her cupboards); two pool noodles, five large bottles of aloe vera juice; several blankets; a travel kettle, golf clubs – I could go on.

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She’d be ready when Armageddon strikes. I had already filled three black sacks before starting on the inside of the car.

Again, it was more of the same although the interior was more like a dustbin with the addition of empty crisp packets, sweet wrappers, cardboard picnic plates, crumpled tin foil, and discarded wax casements of mini Babybels.

I have to stress this mess is not of my mother’s making but of Master A’s, when she collects him from school.

I finally got to clear the back seat. In the passenger footwell was a lovely claret-coloured box. Puzzled at its contents, I peered at what was written on the side: My Grandmother’s name – and the date she was cremated.

Her ashes.

Turns out my Grandmother has been a back seat passenger, still taking in the sights, alongside her Great Grandson, despite dying back in January.

Working Mum, no longer able to blame Master A’s eccentric behaviour solely on his father.