G'day Cobbers!

I am writing to you from the other side of the world. Of course, if you're already in this part of the world, then I'm not.
It is one week today since we landed in Perth, Australia. I've never been this far south and the differences are marked.
Our rented apartment has a pond containing frogs. It's a water-feature really - with a lily pad and lily, artfully arranged rocks and a gently bubbling, modern-looking chimney thingy spouting water. 


Ah but the frogs! On our first night we were certain that a neighbour was wielding a chainsaw. By the second night, we thought that the frog owned a Harley. This tiny green amphibian makes a noise like a motorbike roaring into the distance!


Chris has since struck up several conversations with it - about what, I've no idea. But they happily chat away in motorbike language. Too funny.


Perth is a beautiful city divided by the Swan River where beautiful houses overlook beautiful boats, and all bathed in beautiful sunshine. Yesterday the temperature reached an unseasonal 35'. The boys took us to Blackwall Reach - sandy cliffs where the teenagers hang out and dare each other to jump the 15 metres into the deep river.


Yes, you guessed it. Chris was duly dared to jump - the oldest teenager in town. And jump he did, amidst much cheering from the local youths. Offshore several boats had been tied together, creating a makeshift pontoon on which more beautiful youngsters partied to the sounds of Rap music.


Oh I felt so old!! The lifestyle for youngsters here looks blissful - and all because of the weather.


Chris, bless him, has made sure that I've had plenty of opportunity to work on 'My Book'. Bless him again, he tells anyone who will listen that I'm writing it, convinced that it will be a best-seller. I don't know about that, but I do know that I'm having the best fun working on it.


My only aids (apart from a lifetime of writing) have been The Idiot's Guide To Writing A Novel, and a blog about the 15 stages of a plot that I found on the Internet. My method of writing so far has been to write down the bits that are already complete in my head (otherwise I wouldn't write anything) and then to fill in the trickier bits as and when I've worked them out.


It's a bit like the way I complete a jigsaw or eat my meals: Do/eat the easy/favourite bits first and then fill in/move around all the bits of blue sky/cabbage afterwards. Okay so this has worked so far with jigsaws and mealtimes. We'll see if it works as well with literary masterpieces.


What I'm enjoying most is...well all of it! I love the challenge of creating a scene. I get excited when a theme appears - a ribbon that I can weave through the story - whether it's a play on words or a character's tic. It satisfies my urge to tidy everything up. I love lying in bed at night and seeing the answer to a tricky transition appear before my eyes. It is astounding what our brains can do when you put things on your back burner.


I've just been pondering whether to share a snippet with you? After all, you've been very patient and understanding over my silence. And what use is a silent Blog? So I've found a section that I can copy for you without it being too confusing. A little vignette so to speak. And this one's for Heidi!


                                ooooooooooooooo

Charlotte had made good time. Well she’d only been at the doctors for a repeat prescription of her contraceptive pill. Never could tell though - those queues could be a killer. Endless coughs and groans. And that was just the staff. Anyway, done now. The GP had taken her blood pressure. (A little high. No bloody wonder with her current lifestyle.) He’d asked if she was feeling menopausal. Cheek of the man. Thirty seven wasn’t that old. Was it?

Pushing open the front door, she could hear the strains of Blue Suede Shoes emanating from the sitting room. Oh. Elvis must have been trawling through his back catalogue. 

“Yo!” Brief clapping. “Aw man! You have got to be kiddin me man! 89%? Well sonofabitch!”

“Language!”

“Sorry man. But this machine is out to get me. 93% for You Ain’t Nothin But A Hound Dog, 91% for Suspicious Minds (and man, that is one of my signature tunes), and now this! I’m tellin you man, there’s a conspiracy goin on.”

The Wonder of You started up and Charlotte peered round the open door.

Elvis, feet apart, microphone in hand, was shaking and waving and singing along to the words of the song as they flashed up on the television screen. Behind him Rory and Angelica sat. Her son clasped his hands in rapt attention. She watched emotions playing across his face. His eyes widened as Elvis wheeled his arm and sunk to his knees, winking in Rory’s direction.

Next to him Angelica sat beneath a cloud. Charlotte could see it clearly. Yup. A big, fat, black storm cloud. Woah. This didn’t look good. Her daughter’s cherubic face was contorted into a seething grimace. Her whole body quivered with the force of her anger. Oh boy. This was going to be a biggie. Charlotte half closed one eye, as if squinting might somehow protect her from the blast force when it came.

“... guess I’ll never know, the reason why, I love you like I...” Elvis was in full flow - arms outstretched and mouth wide.

“Right! That is enough!”  Angelica sprang from the sofa and grabbed the games control, jabbing at a button. The room fell silent. Elvis froze, still balanced on one leg, his mouth parting like a goldfish.

Whisking the microphone out of his hand, she stood between him and the television. “Whad’ya think you’re doin man?! I was just about to start the build up to the finale.”

“Sit!” Angelica shoved Elvis in the direction of  the sofa and he lost balance, coming down heavily on his right ankle. “Now!” Elvis hobbled over and sat down next to Rory. He immediately started remonstrating with Angelica, who was scrolling through pages of song titles.

“But man. I had so nearly got it. Just one more. I was on a roll man. I’m certain sure that that last song would have been the winner.” Angelica scowled at him and made ‘zip it’ motions with her fingers across her tightly drawn mouth.

“I do not recall when we entered this Singstar competition...THAT IT WAS THE BEST OUT OF THIRTY!!”  She spat the words at Elvis, and he and Rory cowered back into the cushions. Way to go Angelica!

“But man, I was so close.” Uh oh. Elvis obviously hadn’t learnt his lesson from the last time Angelica put him in his place. (The previous Wednesday. Something to do with white not being the new black.) He tried to struggle out of the sofa and grab back the microphone. What the? Did the man have a death wish?! Angelica pushed him back, jabbing her finger at him and yanking the lead so that the microphone whipped around behind her.

“You will be disqualified if you don’t settle down.” Teaching? Mm, that was worth considering as a career. Or torture? Wasn’t that what MI5 was all about? Spooks. Great. Rory looked crestfallen. He knew his sister well enough to sit still and keep quiet. But she could see his mouth moving and his limbs twitching as he silently rooted for Elvis.

Finally the fight went out of Elvis and there was silence. Well, he must have been exhausted. How many songs? Angelica turned back to the television and selected a song. “Let me show you how it should be done.”

Oh baby baby

Oh baby baby

The unmistakable chords and catchy, thrumming beat of the Britney Spears hit Baby One More Time filled the room. Angelica clutched the microphone and slithered round to face her audience. 

...Show me

How you want it to be

Tell me bay-bee...

She leapt and writhed and played to the imaginary camera, all the while keeping up with the fast-paced lyrics. Charlotte was mesmerised. So were Rory and Elvis. The two of them sat agog as Angelica strutted and sang up and down in front of them. 

Hit me bay-bee one more time

Finally, after a spectacular move that Elvis could only dream about, she sank to one knee and bowed low. Rory exploded into applause. No point in antagonising her.

“What the hell was that man?” Elvis looked dazed.

“Right. The moment of truth.” Charlotte held her breath as the score appeared on screen.

“Yo!!” Angelica punched the air and made stirring motions with both hands clasped out in front of her. “I am the wi-inner, I got the to-op score. I am so cle-ever, and you are ru-ubbish.”

“No way man! You are cheatin or somethin! Aw come on man. 100%! I swear there’s somethin goin on here man. That is not fair!”

Charlotte backed away as quietly as she could. Her shoulders heaved and it was all she could do to stop herself snorting through the hand clasped firmly over her mouth. Shit. Who left that basket of washing there?! Oh it was her. She stumbled backwards, losing her footing and landing heavily against the corner of the kitchen unit. Ouch! Inside, the cutlery rattled in its drawer. The sitting room fell silent. She fled back out through the open front door.

                                 oooooooooooooo

Back soon.

Laura x

Mmmm, yummy sunshine!

Oh blessed sun. What a joy it is to have the luxury of this extended run of sunshine. In fact, it is all the yummier for being unexpected. Just as we had begun to give in to thoughts of winter, Mother Nature gives us a gift of warmth.


Now I love September. It is one of my favourite months. This has a lot to do with my student days. Unlike most universities, Edinburgh Art College started the new term in September. I can still taste the anticipation, feel the tingle of excitement at the prospect of returning to my studies, returning to Edinburgh.


Edinburgh is a most beautiful city. It has filled my life and made me who I am. It also holds a lot of difficult emotions for me now. And that makes me sad. But when September comes, no matter where I am, I am filled with the same rush of joy that I felt some 27 years ago. 


When I breathe September's fresh breath, when I see the first leaves begin to turn their jewel-like hue, I am transported back to the days when all of life lay in front of me and every moment was filled with potential.


One of my dear husband's favourite sayings is: "Experience - you can't buy it, and you can't learn it. You have to live it." And at 45 I am grateful for the experience my life has provided. I enjoy the wisdom and perspective that the years have brought me.


I have tried never to look back with regret. Regret is such a wasted emotion. The life has been lived, the experience gained, and all that can be done is to learn from it, atone for it, in the here and now.


And yet, when September comes - with its misty mornings and its lapiz lazuli skies - my heart soars and I am momentarily sad for my lost youth, and for the innocence that can never be recaptured. What a joy it was to have no responsibilities, to have no past, to have nothing to do but to express my creativity and try life on for size.


And now I am smiling - at my sentimentality and at the worldly-wise woman that I have become. And I am smiling at the thought of my own son, now started on his own journey of discovery, his own educational path.


As I have remarked often, life goes forward. And as the lovely George Harrison once sang: 


Sunrise doesn't last all morning
A cloudburst doesnt't't last all day
Seems my love is up and has left you with no warning
Its not always going to be this grey

All things must pass
All things must pass away

Sunset doesnt't't last all evening
A mind can blow those clouds away
After all this, my love is up and must be leaving
Its not always going to be this grey

All things must pass
All things must pass away
All things must pass
None of lifes strings can last
So, I must be on my way
And face another day

Now the darkness only stays the night-time
In the morning it will fade away
Daylight is good at arriving at the right time
Its not always going to be this grey

All things must pass
All things must pass away
All things must pass
All things must pass away


And so September has passed once more. But the memories of those heady days live on in me.

Jackdaws

I love Jackdaws. Their blue-black feathers remind me of Elvis, and they make the strangest parping sound when they call to each other. Like their cousins the Crows, they are intelligent and full of personality. We are lucky enough to have a bird's eye view from our roof terrace, so I am able to watch them at close hand. 


Do you know our roof terrace? Many of you will, because you are also friends. You will have seen the Jackdaws first hand - wheeling and parping all around us as we sit. Many more have seen our roof terrace from the street. You've probably noticed our collection of flags too. 


Chris decided one day that he liked flags, pronouncing them "cheerful things" and instructing me to order four. They now adorn our railings along with a flying pig, a sausage dog and a dragon fly. Whoever said "An Englishman's home is his castle" was right.


Now I know I've been lax recently when it comes to Blogging. And I know you'll be sick of my excuses (still the same), but I have a new one: I've finally started writing my first book!


It's been formulating on my back burner now for over a year. I started off thinking it would be factual, an autobiography of sorts. I've heard many times that authors should 'write what they know'. And being a literal kinda gal I took that, well, literally.


But while on holiday in Montana it came to me that my tale would make better fiction.


What?


You don't think that a story featuring a time-travelling Elvis, a God-seeking, frustrated writer and a dollop of Quantum Physics sounds far fetched?


Being an expert procrastinator when it comes to anything creative, I have contemplated creative writing courses, journalism courses and generally panicking because 'why should I be able to write a book?'


But in the end I came to the conclusion that I can do whatever I like. I can write whatever I like and if no one else likes it then it doesn't really matter. I'll still have fulfilled my desire and, as God himself said: "What is known cannot be unknown."


So wish me luck and, if you miss my once obsessive blogging, please feel free to reread my previous ones. There's enough to choose from!


P.S: I'll keep you posted on my progress.


Laura x  

The Vicar of Dibley

Having returned once more to work, Lou & I spent a very pleasant day on Friday visiting Lewes near Brighton for a buying appointment. The day was sunny, the collection beautiful and I had the chance to finally indulge my craving for an extra hot Calabrese pizza at Pizza Express. All in all a good day out!


On the way home Lou remarked on my last Blog, laughing and saying she'd remembered me telling her about my Tube experience previously. I went on to tell her about the following - a story she hadn't heard before, despite working for us when it happened. This must have been another case of my being too embarrassed to admit to it!


About 4 years ago we had a visit from an old friend of mine, Margaret. Margaret lives in North Queensferry where I grew up. I've known her since I was 9, and despite the age difference (her being some 15 years older than me) we've always been close.


At the time Margaret was training for one of the Moonlight Walks for Breast Cancer. A great lover of the outdoors and keen to encourage me to be the same, (fat chance) she brought me a book of South Downs Walks and dragged me out to Pulborough to undertake one of the routes. The walk was about 4 miles long and took us along the Downs for a mile or so before cutting through woods and fields and returning us to our starting point.


Now I have no problem with walking. I do it all the time! I just can't quite get my head around walking for the sake of it rather than as a means of getting from A to B. Not that I was going to admit this to Margaret. So off we strode, wrapped up in jumpers and boots.


About a mile from our finishing point we came to a house with a large garden. The book indicated that we should cross the small, elongated pond at the edge of said garden and continue up the hill. Margaret duly stepped onto the stones lying just beneath the surface of the pond and hopped blithely across. 


I paused to look, unsure as to where the stones ended and the water began. (You can see what's coming, can't you?)


I stepped out onto the pond only to find that what I thought was a stone turned out to be water. As I disappeared up to my armpits in freezing cold water, Margaret stared aghast, unable to believe what I'd just done.


She was laughing so hard that she couldn't even help me out and I stood oxter-deep in weed and mud until I managed to clamber out myself. Cow. (There appears to be a pattern here - I do stupid things, and my friends laugh at me.)


Having extricated myself I then had to squelch the final mile uphill and drive home in my bare feet sitting on my waterproof coat.


Later, standing in the shower in an attempt to clean up and get back to work, I was like some monster from the deep - shedding green weed and mud all around me.


Needless to say, the book has since languished on my bookcase unused.


    

Total Chaos

Just a quickie to let you know once more that my life is a guddle and that my multi tasking skills have not miraculously developed just when I need them most.


Louise, our manager, has been on holiday for a fortnight...and everything has descended into chaos. I suspect that she'll be quite glad to hear that she is indispensable, and I'll be very glad to have her back to work.


Being in charge is not all it's cracked up to be. I much prefer it when I can drift around being smiley and creative without the need to be in one place all the time.


Not only has Lou been on holiday but Chris has been in France, my lovely part time lady has been sick, Max came down for his first visit in 2 years, we've had our glamorous friend Dorothy and her boys to stay and it's the height of the new season's deliveries...argh!! And happily (although bemusingly) our customers have decided that, now the sun has come out, they all want to buy winter clothes.


It seems like such a long time since I've had the luxury of a bit of time to myself. Now I know that's the case for most people but I go a bit demented (okay - more demented) when I can't find a wee space for some peace. So much action seems to drive out the creativity and leave a whole lot of white noise in my head.


Now it's Friday night and Chris is sleeping soundly so here I am.
It seems as if I've been a bit serious lately and so I'm going to tell you a wee story that I recounted to Max when he was here:


About twelve years ago, when I was working as a menswear buyer for Jenners in Edinburgh, I was on a buying trip in London. As was the case with most of my buying trips, I made them alone - staying at The Berners Hotel off Oxford Street and visiting various showrooms by day, mostly in the Mayfair area.


On this particular occasion I had to take a trip farther afield to Lancaster Gate to buy Kenzo. (Oh what a delicious collection - all sharply tailored suits and amazing textures and colours - yummy.) 


Now the location of this showroom was a bit out of the way for me and I was a little nervous about finding my way there. (I have no innate sense of direction, plus I never pay enough attention to where I'm going - poor Chris will vouch for this!) 


Being Scottish (and tight - even with company expenses) I decided to take the Underground train. I planned my route and the changes I had to make and proceeded to the first platform.


When the train arrived I politely waited for all passengers to alight from the train, as instructed by the man on the Tannoy. In front of me was a young couple with a baby in a pushchair. Again, politely, I waited for them to board the train. I waited - and then they appeared to change their minds. Finally realising that they were not boarding, I stepped around them and started to enter the carriage.


Now, it turned out that there was a reason that they changed their minds. Unfortunately I didn't realise what that was until too late. No sooner had I put one foot into the carriage and leant forward to climb in, but the doors began to close. I had been concentrating so hard on the little family that I had failed to hear the warning beeps indicating that the train was about to depart.


Picture the scene: The doors close and I am trapped. Not my foot, or even my body - but my head. Only my head. My face is wedged between the train doors and I stare inwards, head immobile as the entire carriage stares back.


Well I was surprised, and stuck, and staring from side to side. After what seemed like an age the doors reopened and I was able to step back onto the platform while the doors closed and the train sped off without me.


A kind lady asked if I was alright (much to my mortification) and I waited for the next train, somewhat dazed and with a face that was starting to hurt. Now I'm trying to be cool here. I'm a professional working girl out and about in London and attempting to fit in with the capable crowds around me...not.


Oh boy did my face hurt! The doors had caught me right on my cheekbones and by the time I finally arrived at my appointment I had a thumping headache. To add insult to injury (literally), I'd never met the guy I had the appointment with. 


I wanted to throw myself into a chair and go: "Oh my God, you'll never guess what's just happened to me!" Instead I discretely took a couple of Paracetamol and tried my best to look interested and knowledgeable as he presented me with swatch after swatch of fabrics. After three hours of selecting suits and shirts and ties I finally escaped to my friends' house for dinner.


With cheekbones still throbbing I at last threw myself into a friendly chair and wailed: "You'll never guess what happened to me!..."


Dear generous Scott looked suitably concerned and made all the right noises as I took them through the events of my day. Dorothy (yes, my glamorous friend D) made no such attempt. Rolling around on the kitchen floor she laughed until she cried. Bitch.


Oh dear, this is so typical of me. If I'd a meeting to go to I'd fall over, skin my knees and ruin my new tights. I used to think I should have grown out of such behaviour. Now I am resigned to being a pensioner who'll trip up crossing the road and show my knickers to the bus driver who's had to do an emergency stop to avoid me.

Ah, but this is not the end to my sorry tale. The following evening I took the plane back to Edinburgh. I was asked by a stewardess to swap seats with a family. (Was it the same family? Were they stalking me?) 


I settled myself wearily into my new seat and the friendly man next to me struck up a conversation. You know, the usual stuff between two professional people - "What were you doing in London?" "What line of work are you in?" 


It turned out that my neighbour worked for London Underground...in the Complaints Department! 


I so wanted to ask him if he had many complaints from people who got their heads stuck in train doors.


But I didn't - I was too embarrassed.    

The Big Day

It’s 11.55pm on Monday 15th August 2011. Today was my Grandma’s 100th birthday. 

My dear cousin Trish had arranged a party at Grandma’s new nursing home in Edinburgh. Chris and I visited early in the morning, so that I could spend some time alone with her before her guests arrived. 

Having last seen Grandma as a rather sorry soul in hospital, I was keen to see both her and her new home. The place was bright and set in pretty gardens and the staff were caring and efficient. We were informed that Grandma was having a perm and were duly taken to see her.

I found her in her wheelchair with curlers in her sparse hair. Although now mostly in a world of her own and severely deaf & blind, she still demanded I hit the lady shrieking in the chair next to her and accused the hairdresser of trying to drown her. (Actually she was quite wet.) 

There proceeded two hours of Grandma shouting her way through lunch, present opening, changing for her party and being pushed round the garden in her wheelchair.

At one point, while being shown to Grandma’s room, the nurse remarked on a raised voice at the end of the corridor. “That’s Jose. She’s our oldest resident...and our loudest.”

Before I make you feel too awful, I am bound to point out that I’m laughing as I write these words, as I did when I experienced this.

Grandma may be 100, wheelchair bound and suffering from dementia but she is the same irascible, voluble, funny, charismatic lady she always was. When, on our garden stroll, she told us to:

“Sit on your arses you silly people!”

I thought I was going to pee my pants. No one, but no one says “arses” with the style and sass of my Grandma.

I sat with her in the sunshine, studying her and listening to her talk and exclaim, listening to her converse with characters that only she could see. And I realised that nothing had changed. The way she spoke, her still so Cockney accent, the words she used, the classic  Jose sayings, the now rarer laugh, all Grandma.

And it struck me that it was as if she were dreaming while awake. Day dreaming. The scenes and characters she described, the emotions she experienced as real - because they were real to her.

She looked so beautiful in her strangeness. Not knowing me, no longer knowing the reality that we inhabit. And it was as if the world paused.

And then all hell broke loose.

Well, okay, the party started.

Now when I told Chris I was writing about today he said: “Well of course. You can talk about her message from the Queen; and how many people came to see her; and about the Scottish piper; and the amazing spread that the staff put on; and the photos of your grandma when she was young; and so many cards...

But I wont.

I can only take you through my day. You know, the one where my darling Grandma calls me an arse and tells me not to touch her; the one where I want to laugh one minute and throw myself on the ground and wail the next; the one that at times seemed like the most deliciously surreal farce imaginable. 

Picture the scene: A large sunny lounge opening onto the garden; crowds of people and presents and tables groaning with food; two little boys tuning their violins and playing tag; the loud rumble of conversation and laughter, above which Grandma’s voice soars continuously. 

The french windows are closed and the room is stifling. When the piper has piped - twice - and I finally open the doors, there is a surge towards the fresh air and old ladies with tea cups and cake spill out into the garden.

I roam around, not sure what to do, where to be. I want to be with Grandma, I can’t settle to talk to my family. Trish and I snatch a brief time alone together, excusing ourselves to take presents up to Jose’s room.

I’ve brought Trish a gift - a set of my favourite ceramics from California, decorated with birds‘ eggs and nests. It is a small token of thanks for this cousin of mine who has taken care of Grandma and me with such generosity of spirit and genuine love.

Back downstairs the party’s in full swing. Grandma is holding court as usual and has rejected a glass of Prosecco in favour of a cup of tea. Nothing changed there then. She also manages to find her way round the most enormous slice of gooey chocolate birthday cake, despite not seeing a thing.

Grandma’s old golfing, swimming and church buddies have turned up in force and are regaling us with their own personal tales of Grandma: Jose making a speech at the annual Golf Club dinner; Jose demanding that the swimming coach hold her head down while she does the splits under water. Trish has prepared a family tree and collages of photos of Grandma and her family at all ages.

The most poignant and unexpected meeting for me was with Grandma’s dear friend Jeanette - a yoga teacher who went to school with my mum. Over the years she taught all three of us the art of yoga, and imbued in us all an abiding love for this ancient cure-all. 

I was winded by our meeting - reminded of our three generations by this remarkable lady who has been a friend to us all. It was she who pointed to a photo of Grandma, mum and I and remarked on the likeness - the three ages of woman.

And I was battered with a tangle of emotions - laughter and grief; guilt that my cousin Trish and not me had created this splendid party; tension - was Grandma alright? Would we have to leave soon?

Seven hours and many hundreds of miles later, I finally sat my weary bones down in a familiar chair in our familiar home and exhaled.

Chris and I sat in our turret overlooking Market Square and dissected the day. As we talked through the emotions and the people we’d met, I slowly came into focus. I am still surprised by my inability to see things clearly when I’m overwrought. Oh Laura you are too funny.

Later as I lay in bed, I looked back over my day, thinking about how I might put into words my complicated reaction to this rare and joyous celebration. I replayed the comedy moments, pictured the photographs, felt the pain of my indebtedness to Trish. I should have been the one to organise Grandma’s big day. I’m her granddaughter. If mum had been alive it would have been her.

And then it hit me. It hit me in the way that other profound realisations have hit me before. Just the same. Lying like this in the dark in bed. Communing with the silent powers of the universe (aka talking to myself). And suddenly WHAM! Like a right hook in the solar plexus. And it’s as if the emotional punch has a physical effect. Tears spring from my eyes in a silent convulsion, cartoon-like, as if a sudden intense feeling of love has been released in an outburst of ecstatic tears.

Weird? 

You think it’s weird. Imagine how I felt.    

So what was all the fuss about then?

As I tormented myself with Trish’s tireless efforts in arranging Grandma’s celebration, I realised that she had done it for me.

Trish loves her Aunty Jose just as deeply as I love my Grandma. And being older than me, she’s known her for longer. This party was a labour of love for Trish, a way of thanking Grandma for the pleasure that their relationship has given her.

But Trish also did this for me. No, my mum, Jose’s daughter wasn’t there to organise her party. And Trish was sensitive to that - as she has always been. 

As my older cousin, she took on the responsibility for today knowing that it would be hard for me and wanting to ease the day for Grandma and me. This petite powerhouse of a lady, with a heart the size of a lion, made sure all through this marathon celebration that I (and my brothers) were at the centre of things. And this from a woman who has devoted more time to Jose over the years than my family has. 

I felt released by my understanding. freed from my torment and filled with admiration and love for my cousin. The more I get to know Trish, the more I find qualities I choose to emulate. And I cut myself a little slack and remind myself that she’s older and wiser than me, so perhaps there’s hope for me yet. 

So my darling Grandma’s 100th birthday party was not only a rip roaring knees up but a bit of a life lesson for me. 

PS: I have a wee calendar stuck on a kitchen unit. It’s just like the ones my Grandma always had. You know, the ones with the tabs you pull off, and every day’s a different quote? 

Well, having been away for the weekend, I had a few tabs to remove. 

“I wonder what the quote for the 15th is? Maybe it will be something profound or linked to today,” thought I.

Well this is it:

“That which is striking and beautiful is not always good. But that which is good is always beautiful.” 

Amen.

My Grandma The Centurion...Make That Centenarian!

  

My darling maternal Grandma Jose was 100 years old on Monday 15th August. Isn't she beautiful?!

Okay, so she doesn't look like this now but her spirit is the same. Still beautiful, still unbowed, still flirting, still making us laugh and laughing herself.

I've been trying all week to write this. I want to commemorate this special lady on her 100th birthday by attempting to capture on paper all that she has meant to me over the last 45 years. And how she has been here for me for the last 8, since my mum (her beloved daughter) died. 

But I can't write without remembering how I have felt watching her descend into infirmity and dementia and how I have mourned our lost relationship, just as I did with mum. 

When I think of my Grandma Jose, I think of sunshine & walnut birthday cakes; yoga & golf balls; doing the splits; raucous piano playing & laughter; gardening & love stories; flirting Flapper Girls & free spirits; endless knitting & sewing; mince & tatties & apple pie; her cavernous attic filled with treasures to be given away; eagle eyes & a sharp, honest tongue; beautiful, piercing pale blue eyes & nut brown limbs; pressed flowers & spidery writing; stubborn as a mule & much loved.

Grandma and I were always close. I loved her eccentric, exhibitionist ways and wanton disregard for the norm. I loved the thought of her sunbathing in her back garden, resplendent in her (by then octogenarian) birthday suit. I loved her (often cruel) honesty. I loved hearing over and over again how she and Grandpa had met.

My gentle, lovely Grandpa Bill died when I was thirteen. For the last 32 years Grandma has lived without the love of her life, and lived happily. Even now, when most of her words make no sense to me and she fails to remember who I am, the feel of her engagement ring on my finger brings a smile to her face.

With 45 years of memories to choose from, I'm going to select a few in an attempt to give you a sense of this remarkable lady:

My first one is of Grandma shouting, cross with me for attempting (at the grand old age of 3) to climb out of my parents' bedroom window. What? I thought the view from the roof looked good!

Then there were the endless childhood Christmases when Grandma appeared, a tweed clad Mrs Claus with a sack full of treasure - hand knitted dolls clothes and strange foreign objects scoured from the Church Bazaar.

Skip forward 15 years and picture the scene: I'm pregnant (deliberately), a twenty year old student half way through my degree. Too scared to tell Grandma myself, my dear mum (used to the lashing of her mother's tongue) passed on the news. 

I was summoned for tea. Still in my first trimester and feeling permanently nauseous, I was ordered to sit down to first vegetable soup and then a plate of Grandma's mince & tatties. I still don't know what was worse - having to force down the unappetising food in front of me, or enduring the baleful gaze of my disapproving Grandmother. 

Eventually she spoke:

"Did you know that you can have sex without getting pregnant?"

"Yes Grandma."

"Did it have to be Gavin, or could it have been anyone?"

All hopes of me finishing my mince & tatties disappeared down the toilet, along with the vegetable soup!

Having asked her questions and accepted the situation with her usual pragmatism, she embraced the role of Great Grandma with the same enthusiasm as she had me. I have endless memories of her and Max together: Jose teaching Max to play piano; the two of them digging intently, side by side in her garden; a teenage Max as enchanted by her love story as I have always been.

And on the years have passed. When mum died something died within Grandma. Something died within me. But as the pain has eased I've realised that every experience has a gift to give. From mum's death it was a strengthening of the bond that Grandma and I shared. The irony of which is not lost on me.

Mum and Grandma had a difficult relationship, with Grandma favouring her only son and mum always the dutiful daughter. Despite this, mum didn’t resent what Grandma and I shared. And I’m sure that the closeness that mum and I shared was the legacy of her relationship with Grandma. 

And so the dynamics of our relationship changed again. Now there were only two of us instead of the three generations of feisty women that had been. Grandma and I handled our grief very differently - she staying dry eyed and silent while I bared all. 

There were fights over mum’s husband and a silent compromise, a respect for each other’s ways. Without mum I took over the role of dutiful daughter, phoning every few days and visiting as often as the long distance between us would allow.

The memories of our Sunday morning phone calls, punctuated by laughter, still make me smile. 

The phone calls stopped only a couple of years ago. Having lived alone in the house she'd shared with Grandpa, and now severely blind, Grandma was finally persuaded to relinquish her independence and move to a care home.

They say that once this independence is lost that the aged often deteriorate quite rapidly. It seems as if this is true of Grandma. 

But I remember the constant cries of "Just take me out and shoot me!" issued over the past five years. In the end I used to reply: "Well I would Grandma, but it's illegal."

She'd had enough by then and longed to be free of her pain and her ever shrinking world. 

And in her own way now, I guess she is.

I think about life without Grandma, think about being the last of our trio - no daughter to continue the strong line of stroppy mares in our family. And I am sad.

And I am glad.


I am grateful to this remarkable centenarian for sharing her life with me. And I am grateful for the qualities that she has passed on to me - grateful for her DNA.