Every time my brother-in-law drove me home, I would black out and wake up sore. My husband just laughed and said I was out of shape. After the fourth trip, I hid a voice recorder in my purse — and that night I heard a phone call that made me realize the blackouts had never been accidents.

And the registered address is my own home — because I put it there myself in 2021, deliberately, when I was being careful, four months after he died.

Four of them arrived at my own front door between the March of last year and the February of this one.

Change of particulars. A charge notification. Two more things with my own name in bold capitals at the top of the first page.

I opened the first three. All of them, standing up, in the lobby or the hall.

And every single time, I took the thing to my husband.

Once in the hall. Once in the kitchen with the oven on. Once in a car park outside a garden centre, which I remember because of the trolleys.

And I asked him what it was.

And every single time he gave me an answer that lasted about four seconds.

That’s the restructure.

That’s the holding thing — it’s an admin step.