Nan and the magazines

Nan has an elderly gentleman admirer called Donnie, an unattractive version of dear Paul Daniels -  as she got older her standards definitely slipped.  I'm ashamed to admit they once came up to visit me at University and I pretended I wasn't in as they hammered at the door - I loved Nan, but didn't want anyone to see me with him.  They spent most of their time arguing - well,  Nan argued and Donnie apologised.  He brought her frequent presents - she said tartly that this was because he hoped to take their relationship to the next level (but let's not go there - it is not a good thought).

One day he arrived with a bag of magazines and asked if she would read them to him.  Nan was very fond of Woman's Own and was looking forward to a read with a cup of coffee and a Tunnock's teacake for company; but it crossed her mind that perhaps Donnie couldn't read and needed a fix of Patience Strong - so she agreed.  Sitting close to her on the sofa he began to decant the contents of his plastic bag.  As Nan put on her spectacles she focused on a pile of hard-core Teutonic porn magazines when she was expecting to see Clare Rayner - fundamental mistake here as Nan didn't read German .

Horrified Nan pushed Donnie off the sofa and as he got up she hit him around the head with a rolled-up magazine.  Exit Donnie - no apologies would suffice - he had had his chips.  For a good while after Nan entertained her girl friends (think Golden Girls merged with the witches in Macbeth) with lurid descriptions of the magazines and how disgusted she was.  I did wonder about her detailed recall of the contents of said publications when we were told she had immediately thrown them in the dustbin.

Nan and the sheepskin slippers

Every Christmas as Nan looked on expectantly as we opened our 'surprise' packages.  The problem was the final presents we were given were never a mystery as they were always pairs of sheepskin slippers.  I think sheepskin slippers were thought to be rather 'posh' and every member of the family would be clad in a new pair for the rest of Christmas day.

I am not a fan of slippers preferring to wear nothing on my feet or if it is really cold I might don a pair of flip flops.  I suspect this is because years of enforced slipper-wearing have super-heated my poor feet.  Even the fashion for Uggs had passed me by; bit like wearing your PJs outside - not natural or necessary in my opinion.   I realised I was growing up and away from the bosom of the family when I announced before one Christmas that no one should buy me slippers as I wasn't going to wear them ever, ever, ever again.
No one took any notice and I continued to be given these furry monstrosities for years to come only to take them down to the local charity shop as soon as it opened after the festivities.

Never trust a man who wears slippers

Great Gran, Nan and me

Great Gran and I were in almost perpetual competition for Nan's attention.
One day on a shopping trip to Broadstairs I distinctly heard her to say to Nan that they should leave me at the bus stop and collect me when they had finished shopping - I think I was about 6 at the time.  I like to think she was joking, but I suspect not as she wasn't known for a sense of humour.

Nan and coats

Nan liked to buy me clothes and always insisted on buying what she called 'big things' such as coats and shoes.  She aimed to buy items that got you looked at,  as in her mind any attention was good attention.  Unfortunately her idea of what was a good look rarely matched mine - I refer you to the tale of the   Nan and the party dress

Coats were always dangerous.  I remember a maroon cord coat with white fur around the cuffs and hood - so not a good colour on me and the fluff moulted something dreadful.  Nan insisted I looked like someone called Lara.  I have since seen Dr Zhivago and have to say - sadly- I bore absolutely no resemblance to Julie Christie.  In fact in this coat I looked like Like a cross between Little Red Riding Hood and Liam Gallagher.

She then turned up with an enormous fake fur coat - made for someone about 40 years, no  60 years older than me.  It was an alarming yellowy-brown colour and looked like it had been made from a dozen dead cats.  When I wore it (under duress) people used to hiss at me and chant 'Fur is murder'.  I wondered at what stage Nylon had been alive.

But the height (low) of her coat purchases was the Afghan coat.  Her friend worked in a dress shop and when clearing out old stock the woman passed various items to Nan.  One of which came my way.  Now I think Jimi looks fantastic in his Afghan, but by the time I got mine they had not been in fashion for some time.  It had the advantage of keeping me warm, but my goodness when it rained - well, of course it smelt like a wet goat mixed with my signature scent Rive Gauche - hideous. Fortunately  one day I 'left' it on the bus - and it was never seen again.

Love letter to my Nan

My Dad phoned earlier to say that Nan died this afternoon after a month's illness.


As a child I loved her unconditionally, although when I was a teenager she sometimes made me angry.  But most of all she made me the woman I am today; she taught me how to love and nurture people, that food is a weapon of love, that you can never have enough flowers and that you should laugh every day.

She wasn't always been a good influence; she was an outrageous flirt - charming all my boyfriends - I too am a flirt, but unlike Nan I can't flirt with those I genuinely like.  Like her I adore the sea; although she could not swim  - I can picture her now, wearing an emerald-green swimming costume and a swimming hat decorated with flowers, standing beside me as I practised front crawl, insisting I didn't splash her as she didn't want to get wet.  I can feel that icy coldness, the salt water in my eyes and mouth and that heart-bursting love I felt for her.

 I could confide my nastiest, most ungenerous thoughts to her and  know that she would always love me and be on my side.  Her advice was sometimes flawed; she thought I should give University a miss as it was full of 'posh people' and I wouldn't fit in.  But she also inspired me to read and to tell stories.  When I stayed with her I would sleep in her bed with the slippery, shiny green eiderdown and she would tell me stories from her childhood about moonlight flits, her own much beloved Granny, her irascible mother, louche uncles and a crazy woman who roamed Ramsgate chopping the pigtails off little girls.

I did tell her I loved her, but she always said we'll have enough of that old china and offered me a biscuit..

So Tiny Woman with size 3 feet, lover of raw cabbage and banana sandwiches,  who preferred animals to people (your two grand daughters aside), wearer of emerald green jumpers, scented with Coty's L'Aimant, skin-smooth with Oil of Ulay, I just want to say to you, wherever you have gone to, that there will always be a part of you somewhere deep within my soul.

Thanks for everything Nan

Nan and bedtime

When Nan's sons were small she had a night time job as a nursing auxiliary in a local hospital.  She would put the boys to bed and then cycle off to work, coming home in  the early hours to catch a few hours sleep, get them up for school and then cycle off to her day job.

The three mischievous (Nan's description of them was slightly more salty) boys rarely stayed in bed and often  planned practical jokes to play on their weary mother.  One night they put a cat in her bed - at about the level you might put a hot water bottle.  The cat, strangely, did not complain, but settled under the weight of blankets for a contented sleep.

Nan arrived home, exhausted and staggered into bed, within seconds she began to scream loudly as her feet met the furry bundle that objecting to being woken attached  claws to her calves. Nan was not amused and often referred to this episode as if on level with matricide.  When asked which cat it was (well - this detail was important to me) she would say: 'How should I know - all cats are the same in the dark.'
When I was older I looked up this saying - big mistake- and chanced upon Benjamin Franklin's advice to a young friend - I was quite glad that this Nanism/Franklinism hadn't become part of my vocabulary.

Me and Easter eggs: Nan tells me off -part 2

Probably best not to read this if eating a chocolate egg.

It would be true to say I was an indulged child (at least until Sister was born - I'm not jealous - honestly).
Every Saturday Nan would buy me two comics.  Early favourites were Beano and The Dandy - how I loved Beryl the Peril (it may have been her striped t-shirt, not the beret; I've never got on with berets - they do accentuate the ears I find).  In later years these changed to unsuitable teenage magazines with dodgy problem pages that made me feel inadequate as I didn't have interesting problems to send in.

An aside - while musing on  problem pages - few nights ago when watching 4Music with my son there was an advert for a mobile phone service that advised on becoming a better kisser. We spent an idle 30 seconds wondering what advice they might give - we came up with to brush your teeth more than occasionally, shave off any extra straggly moustaches especially if used as a crumb catcher  and avoid looking over your partner's shoulder to see if someone you'd rather kiss has come in the room.

Back to the past. The main indulgence was food especially regular sweets to go with the comics, Christmas selection boxes and best of all Easter.  In spite of my misadventure I still love chocolate (Galaxy being my chocolate of choice - not so keen on anything with a  high cocoa content  - but then again Charbonnel et Walker rose or violet creams - although almost unnatural - are delicious and have great packaging).

I received an Easter egg from Mum and Dad, one from Nan, one from Nan and Grampy and one each from my three uncles and two aunts.  One of the uncles had been to Jersey for a holiday and came back with a tin containing Jersey fudge (I remember the tin now - it had a relief map of the Channel Islands in vivid colours). That makes 8 eggs and 1 tin of fudge.

It is Easter morning - I am in Nan's bed with my hoard.  I inspect them closely and try to decide in what order I should eat them.  Even with Easter eggs there are dilemmas to be solved - do I eat the caramel ones first (I don't like caramel very much) and get them over and done with quickly or save them to the end when I probably won't care less what I'm eating.  I'm afraid it does not occur to me to share them.

Nan gets up and tells me I can eat a little bit of an egg and then must come downstairs for breakfast. When she leaves the room I begin to eat the eggs systematically and in between each egg I eat the fudge (even the rum and raisin flavour - yuck).

Some time later Nan comes upstairs. I realise I will get into trouble, hide the boxes under the blankets and pretend to be asleep - I don't feel so good.  She goes back downstairs and I go back to eating the eggs despite my churning stomach.   Eventually the inevitable happens and I am violently sick all over her bedroom (I really do mean ALL over her bedroom).  Nan is cross and shouts at me - this is the first time I ever remember her telling me off.  
In future years I am only allowed to eat Easter eggs in public places.
Lesson learned:
Lesson 1:  Don't be a pig - no one needs to eat that much chocolate.
Lesson 2: Avoid anything with caramel or rum and raisin flavouring.
Lesson 3: If you must over-indulged do it in your own bedroom.

Nan and the guinea pigs

One day Nan produces a cardboard box saying she has a surprise for us.  My parents exchange anxious looks.  Inside is a heap of straw that moves as if something is going to erupt from it (think John Hurt's chest in Alien).  Nan parts the straw to reveal a small furry bundle: a guinea pig.  Orange and white with black button-eyes and wiggling furiously.
'Cousin Doreen's got an Alsatian,' she says as if this explains everything.  The box fortunately was not big enough to contain an Alsatian - even a puppy.
'He eats anything that moves so I said I'd find a good home for this little chap'.
Mum and Dad don't want a  guinea pig, but know when they have met an immovable force.  The guinea pig is christened Peachy - another top-class animal name from me (Just as well I never became a racehorse namer or one of those people who think up paint names - Farrow and Ball would have gone out of business).
The straw continues to churn.
'Well, if you are going to have the big one,  you'll have to have the small one.'   Nan reaches in and pulls out a tiny guinea pig - this one is black and brown with a little caramel sprinkle.  He is covered in tufts of hair, not smooth like the other one.  Inevitably I decide to call him Tufty.

Nan puts Peachy and Tufty down to play on the floor.  Peachy zips around, but Tufty lurches drunkenly.
'He's a bit lop-sided,' says Dad, picking him up. 'Oh he's only got three legs.'

'Yes'  I know,' says Nan as if three-legged pets are nothing out of the ordinary. ' That's why I was telling you about Doreen's Alsatian, he bit the leg off poor little Tufty - so I couldn't leave them there could I?'

Nan and the birthday party

Being born just before Christmas meant that I rarely had birthday parties as a child.  Although I can understand now why they weren't very high on the parental agenda I was deeply resentful at the time (and for about twenty years afterwards...)

One year Nan decides to throw me an impromptu party.   I tell Nan about a party I had been to where there had been a magician; not to be out done she promises me some party entertainment.   Her niece is coming to visit,  bringing her four daughters - all under ten - they will do as party guests.  As a family they are very odd (to my mind), they look identical;  just at different stages of development: they even dress alike - including the mother).  They sound alike and are loud and boisterous except for the middle girl.  She is extremely nervous, never speaks voluntarily, every time she has to go into another room the nervous girl looks anxiously around the door before moving.  Even the cats make her flinch.

It was inevitable that she does not respond positively to Uncle's jolly game where he pretends to wrench the nose off your face and then  poking his thumb through his first and second fingers, shouts,  'I've got your nose!'   This is followed by him wrestling you to the ground - I find this most entertaining, but it is possibly a little full-on for the uninitiated.

Nan disappears upstairs to get herself ready for the entertainment while we eat sandwiches, jelly and ice cream (standard party fare before the advent of sushi and tapas for the under-sevens).  We wait with anticipation as she can be heard coming downstairs.

Leaping into the room Nan is wearing a black cloak, a tall black hat and a hideous witch's mask.
She shrieks, 'I am a witch and I've come to eat your brains and then to suck out your eyeballs!'
There was lots of excited screaming; although the photograph taken at the time shows me calmly eating crisps.

 But then the nervous girl falls off her stool and has a fit brought on by fright (she had never had one before or since).  An ambulance is called and Nan's career as party entertainer is over.

Nan, me and the broken arm

About a week after I have broken my arm - plaster from wrist to elbow - term ends and I am due to go to Ramsgate with Nan.  No one at home is very sympathetic about my injury - it was my own fault and I just had to lump it.  I am sad that I won't be able to go swimming in the sea (one of my all-time favourite activities) as the plaster has to stay on for 6 weeks.  It is a nasty itchy thing (even the frequent use of a knitting needle for scratching doesn't help) and now has many obscenities written and drawn on it - Ah! The originality of youth.

But Nan, being a fellow hedonist feels my pain; decides there is no reason why a broken arm shouldn't stop me swimming.  Every time I go into the sea -  four or five times a day whatever the weather - my arm is wrapped up in several plastic bags and secured with elastic bands.  The cast does limit my marine activities: front crawl isn't feasible - you end up hitting your head with the cast quite often - although a sedate (slightly lop-sided) breast-stroke is just about manageable. The plaster does get a bit soggy, but usually dries out over-night ready for the next day's dunking.

Strangely the broken arm never healed properly (it is thinner than the other one and I can't put any weight on it - those who know me may come and inspect it).   I sometimes wonder if it was the swimming that did it

Nan and the fancy dress party

I am invited to a fancy dress party by one of the boys I met at Lucy's party.  Finding a suitable costume will be challenging; it is necessary to be cool, alluring, individual (but not too individual) and wear as few clothes as possible - while at the same time avoiding the gimlet gaze of Mum who might make me stay at home and do my homework.

 I enlist Nan's help; she understands that girls just wanna have fun , has wardrobes of interesting clothes left over from the 1950s and has gone out in some pretty shocking outfits in her time.  There are still problems to be overcome: I am 8 inches taller and 5 dress sizes smaller (viz Twiggy and Barbara Windsor - only from the neck down).  A red velvet cocktail dress takes my eye, but I (sadly) do no have the curves to fill it.  Nan (I feel) is not taking this sartorial conundrum as seriously as she should, for instance her repeated suggestion that I dress as an old lady with a head scarf, shopping bag and falling-down stockings. After much sighing and huffing on my part she pulls out a colourful floral dirndl skirt with a sticky-out petticoat,  a white embroidered peasant-style blouse and announces I would make a good gypsy.  No - I am not a swarthy, dark-haired flashing-eyed voluptuous Carmen-type, but skinny, mousy and freckled.   Although not at all convinced I give in because a) my lift has arrived (Uncle in his Ford Cortina) and b) I cannot resist the lure of the charming Piers - slightly punky, when off school premises (a good look) or traditional Sloane-wear (rugby shirt with turned-up collar) - when within the hallowed grounds (not quite so good).

So there I am  - the most anaemic romany princess in all of Oxfordshire wearing an off-the-shoulder top made for a woman with the frontage of Diana Dors (I'm getting worried about the recurrence of off-the-shoulder outfits in my fashion history), enormous hoop earrings (very bling - or tarty as we said in the olden days). Footwear  proved a problem - Nan has feet the size of Miss Piggy's and I only have my cowboy boots which she says won't do for the authentic gypsy vibe.  She suggests I go bare-footed and I (idiot that I am) agree.

Uncle drives me to the school.  Unfortunately the party is taking place in the cricket pavilion - to get there involves a lengthy walk over wet playing fields.  I make my great entrance with mud up to my ankles and hide in a corner while I survey the scene. I am a lone gypsy in a room full of girls wearing variations on the 'sexy' outfit: sexy school girls (think Britney) and sexy tights/leotard combos (think haven't finished getting dressed).  Remind self not to ask Nan's advice about anything to do with clothes ever again.

Needless to say it wasn't a great evening.  Piers obviously preferred the schoolgirl-look to the gypsy - perhaps he had premonitions of Big Fat Gypsy Wedding?  The evening ended with me trudging back to meet Uncle, who loyally said I looked nice and offered me a Murray Mint - I would like to say that this made it better, but it really didn't.

Nan and why ladies shouldn't wear trousers: part 1

When growing up I never saw my Nan in trousers (or slacks as she would probably call them).  She thought women had a duty to be feminine at all times and complained whenever I wore trousers. But it was her insistence on 'bringing me out of my shell' that saw me wedded to jeans throughout my teenage years; the only place I regularly wore a skirt was at school where pleated, grey sacks of a certain length were de rigueur - but at least I was safe from Nan there.
Until I got wise to her, and went into permanent denim, a typical scenario has the two of us walking through Oxford - it is daytime, she is sober, I am fourteen - skinny and self-conscious.  She would then address random men: 'This is my granddaughter - doesn't she have fabulous legs?  Have you ever seen such good ankles?' This would be followed by a simper (from her, not me - I would be pretending I didn't know her)  'She gets her bone structure from me, of course.' (When I finally saw Taxi Driver  I felt a certain kinship with Iris.)

Mortified I would remonstrate with her, but this seemed to increase her need to embarrass me. Nan seemed to think she was doing me a favour, always saying things like 'Don't hide your light under a bushel'.

The apotheosis of my humiliation came when she tried this trick on a group of German language students.  They gamely (and politely) agreed,  saying such things as 'sehr gutt' and 'Nette Knöchel'.  Thanks guys, I appreciated your efforts at international good will, but it really didn't help and I'm not sure your national aesthetic is to be trusted given the popularity of The Hoff in Deutschland.

Nan and the knitted swimming costume

Unlike her nemesis Nan-next-door,  Nan wasn't such a gifted knitter.  Most of the things she made bore little resemblance to the original pattern; for instance hats could double as small sleeping bags.  When she finished whatever garment she was knitting we had an interesting ritual ,whereby all family members tried it on to see who it would fit; poor Dad was frequently offered cardigans in pastel colours which he generally declined.
Actually I'm surprised Nan continued knitting after her first experience with wool.  As a child Nan lived with her family in Ramsgate, but she was not allowed to go onto the beach as Great Gran thought it common. Once she started work Nan gained more independence and ignored most of her mother's dictates including the forbidden beach. One summer she decided to knit herself a swimming suit that no one else would have.  She said she felt fantastic tripping down to the sands and revealing her white costume to her youthful admirers.  Her splash in the sea was also satisfactory -but she would never go deeper than her shoulders as she couldn't swim and she didn't want to get her hair wet.
Her return to the beach was not quite so triumphant; the white wool had stretched alarming and the costume was almost completely transparent.  She rushed back into the sea and stayed there until the beach emptied as none of her 'genetlemen' friends would bring her a towel.  Home-made swim suits never featured on her fashion agenda again.

Nan and the secret garden

I am reading 'The Secret Garden' by Frances Hodgson Burnett and love it so much I bore the family with detailed retellings of it - with a few tweaks: Mary Lennox becomes Renka Lennox and Colin isn't such a drip - he's more like Julian in the 'Famous Five' stories.

Nan indulges this (as she does everything) and offers to take me to a secret garden provided I don't tell my parents.  Nan, clutching the inevitable picnic in a string bag and I, clutching my key text, walk up the hill for about a mile along a road lined with towering, dark green conifers planted behind a tall wooded fence.  Nan pushes me through a hole in the fence; inside there is the most enormous garden, smooth lawns, trees and shrubberies.  To be honest I feel a little short-changed as it is much too big and park-like to be the secret garden.  But Nan seems to be having fun so I don't complain.  We head to the far side of the garden, behind what she says is the gardeners' hut (this is more like it!); behind the hut is a deep ditch full of bunches of flowers and floral arrangements.  I am sent into the ditch to see if I can find any decent flowers to take home while Nan sits on the grass shouting directions and partaking of a restorative banana sandwich.  I, exhausted, climb up and down (like a small non-bearded Chris Bonnington, but with Start-rites rather than crampons).  I manage to pull together a collection of browning lilies and chrysanthemums.  I also find some sweet little cards and put a few in my pocket for inspection later. 

Later when Mum turns out my pockets for the wash she gives a little cry and asks where the  cards came from - I had forgotten all about them.  They had writing on them which was hard to read as it was joined-up, something I had yet to aspire to.  They said things like 'Darling Bertha, always in our hearts, your loving cousins Cyril and Lucy'   or 'Henry, gone to a far better place, from all your Friends at Pressed Steel'.
I forget my promise and tell Mum about the secret garden.
I suspect my parents may have complained about this outing as I was never taken to Oxford Crematorium for a picnic again.

Nan and why it is perfectly acceptable to lie for a dog

Nan had no capacity to resist an unwanted or unloved animal.  When challenged by Uncle as to why there was yet another cat living in the side passageway  she would look him straight in the eye and say 'That old thing?  Why I've had it for ages.' (Good fib for clothes, but works surprisingly well for feline acquisitions).

My parents usually ignored her entreaties to take the sweet little kitten, puppy, guinea pig, budgie, rat etc home - mainly due to the Sooty debacle.  Nan persuaded them to adopt a tiny, black spaniel-mix puppy as company for Suki - the dog she tricked them into getting a few years previously.  Sooty, being extremely incontinent, was shut in the kitchen overnight together with Mum's pride and joy (as a family it doesn't take much to make us happy) the new kitchen table and 6 chairs.  The next morning the floor was littered with puddles and wood shavings - Sooty being the canine equivalent of Jaws.  For many years  all female guests ran the risk of getting their American tan tights laddered if they sat at the kitchen table.

Nan turned her attention to the next generation of animal-rescue victims - me.  We were 'just popping in' to see her friend who happened to have five cuddly caramel-coloured puppies in need of a good home. 
'You should take one home,' Nan  insists ' Poor Honey must get lonely on her own' (Honey is probably the only dog my parents have been allowed to acquired without Nan's intervention/interference; a pedigree golden Labrador - as stupid as she is beautiful).  I argue that Mum has strictly forbidden me from coming home with any animals - ever again (even now the pungent aroma of the water vole that died in the box in my bedroom comes back to haunt me).  Also Mum would only want a pedigree dog - not some Heinz 57 variety.  Nan sniffs disapprovingly - we are in danger of getting above ourselves and deserting our working class roots.  But I am like a sandcastle in the path of the incoming tide - i.e. completely and utterly unable to defend myself, seeing destruction as my destiny.  There is no beating Genghis Nan.  Mum is to be told the dog is a rare type of Labrador; thinner, browner, less Labrador-like, but still Kennel Club approved.

I take the dog home.   My parents insist I take it away again.  After tears and promises, that I will take it for walks and do all the other unsavoury things you have to do for dogs, they relent.  Fortunately they forget that I am off to University in under three weeks and won't be taking part in the twice-daily humiliation of walking a crapping dog.

Despite this ill-starred beginning Sally (another top family dog name) becomes a much loved pet.  Dad makes her a daily cup of tea in her special mug; only he can make it the way she likes it (his words).  Although Sally achieved doggie Nirvana sometime ago (no - she wasn't really a great Kurt Cobain fan) she is gone, but not forgotten.  Dad seemingly incapable of remembering what Sister and I are actually called, addresses us as Sally.   Sister, being a kind forgiving soul,  ignores this lapse of memory - while I give a little bark.

Nan and Parson's Pleasure

Nan often took Small Sister and I for walks to admire the beauties of Oxford: the Botanic Gardens, Magdalen College Meadows, the Ashmolean Museum and the Pitt Rivers Museum (highly recommended - dinosaurs and shrunken heads). 
One of Nan's favourite outings was to walk through the University Parks to a spot called Parson's Pleasure.  Strictly speaking we didn't actually go to Parson's Pleasure as it was (is?) a male-only nude bathing area on the river.  No - we went to sit on the other side of the fence that hid the swimmers from view and eat our picnic - banana sandwiches in wholemeal bread, raw carrots and red cabbage.  One August Nan was given a bottle of champagne brandy (cognac) for her birthday.  Thinking it fizzy champagne she thought it an appropriate accompaniment drink for a picnic; given that I was 13 and Sister 4 I think it  safe to assume that Nan was responsible for the empty bottle at the end of the afternoon.  Things got a bit raucous when she insisted on looking through the knot holes in the fence and at the same time warning us not to follow her example as  'it was very shocking and shouldn't be allowed' and at the same time encouraging the gentlemen bathers not to be shy.

The day ended with Nan and Sister walking back to Cornmarket singing such gems as 'I've got a lovely bunch of coconuts' and 'Show me the way to go home' .  With me walking as far behind them as possible and praying I wouldn't see anyone I knew.

This was a sad day.  Up until then I had thought everything Nan did was wonderful; she was the loudest, funniest person I knew - a real 'give me lemons and I'll make lemonade' person.  But from then on I avoided any al fresco event that involved both Nan and alcohol.

Nan and the side passageway

At the side of Nan's house is a door leading to a covered passageway with a door to the kitchen in the side wall and another to the back garden at the far end. There were numerous territorial battles between Nan and Uncle as to who had supremacy over the side passage.  Nan used it as a moggy hotel for any stray cats who came through her garden and rejected Dandycord rugs. Uncle used it to house his equally precious motor bike (often to be found in pieces, occasionally to be found in one piece and riden around the block before being taken apart again).

One extremely foggy morning in the 1950s Nan had been ticked off by Uncle for her use of his 'empire': 'Muuther, I don't want to find any cats in that passage when I come home - horrible stinky things and their fur gets all over my bike.'  With that he jumped onto his Norton, revving up the hill, a young man in a hurry - sadly more Lone Ranger than Marlon Brando in The Wild One.

Some time later Nan went to catch the bus to work.  Stepping out into the dense fog, she could hear the sound of a horse galloping down the hill.  Expecting to see a horse and rider she came face to face with a lone horse with a bridle, but no rider.  Grabbing the bridle (always wondered quite how she managed to do this - being vertically challenged - possibly some sort of flying ninja jump - must ask her for more detail) she began to talk to the horse, warning him that it wouldn't be a good idea to continue down the hill as the main road was ahead and that he should come with her until she could find out where he belonged (yes, she did and still does talk to animals in exactly the same way she talks to humans).
The horse was led into the passageway to await Uncle's return.  Sadly Nan wasn't there to hear his initial reaction; but given that he continued to bring this up in every arguement they had until the 1980s I suspect he wasn't very pleased.

Nan and the party dress

Some background. At the time this story took place my outfit of choice consisted of a t-shirt worn under one of my dad's lumberjack-style work shirts (no, he wasn't a lumberjack- he just liked to dress as one).  Said shirts had to be smuggled out of the ironing pile and then smuggled back before he noticed;  he wasn't keen on me borrowing them as his work mates always commented on the great smell of Rive Gauche that seemed to surround him.  I digress.  The above was worn with the tightest jeans I could squeeze into (coat hangers being the tool of choice) and if they weren't tight enough I would take them in.  This was fine when cycling to school as I could free-wheel as it was down hill all the way.  Coming home was a bit of a problem; the bike was impossible and not being able to bend at the knee resulted in a strange stiff legged walk - but who hasn't suffered for art?

Great look (or so I thought), but not the sort of thing to wear to Lucy's party (names changed here to protect the innocent) where most of the other guests were girls from Oxford High and boys from St Edwards - it was like Bridehead Revisted, The Great Gatesby and First Form at Mallory Towers all rolled into one -  heady stuff for a girl from the local comprehensive.  I confided in Nan who said that I was not to worry and that she'd find me something to wear.  When she fell asleep in front of the TV I kept whispering 'Miss Selfridge, Miss Selfridge' into her ear - but Paul McKenna where were you when I needed you (possibly not born?)
The night of the party I get changed at Nan's house; excited to see 'the dress' which I have been assured by Nan would 'knock 'em dead' my mum thought was 'pretty' and 7 year old sister lisped was just what a princess would wear.  I had been warned.

Yes - they were all correct: knock 'em dead with laughter, pretty awful and yes, Diana might have worn it when feeling depressed about Camilla.  It was made of pale blue cheesecloth (younger readers may need to look this up - but if you can't imagine the best sort of thing to clean windows with - floppy and scratchy at the same time).  The skirt had at least 4 flounces; imagine a ra-ra skirt, but not as sophisticated and each flounce was decorated with a band of blue lace and blue ric-rac.  The top was a cross between Jane Russell's dress in 'The Outlaw', minus Howard Hughes' intervention and Sophia Loren's 2009 Oscar dress -without the good taste.  This was the first and last time I wore an off-the-shoulder dress.  We both realised it looked hideous, but Nan being a glass-half full woman suggested we try and make it less noticable; I could wear some bright red lipstick or back comb my hair so it balanced out the fullness of the skirt or as a last resort I could borrow one of Uncle's jumpers (khaki green, khaki brown - lovely with pale blue).

The jumper won and got me on the bus without being laughed at.  Fortunately the top deck was almost empty and I was able to change back into my t-shirt, lumberjack shirt and jeans combo which I made sure I took with me.

The party wasn't so bad after all - Southern Comfort, pogoing and lots of Blue Stratos (these were posh boys).  Although I didn't fit in with the girls - long dresses (Laura Ashley, Miss Selfridge) the boys were a different matter;  they were either wanna-be punks or had never met a girl from a state school before.

Nan and Pinky

Nan acquired a cat called Little Mum who had taken up residence under the Helichrysum bush in the front garden.  The cat cried so pitifully that she had to be adopted (this was the tale Nan told Uncle - his version was that Nan had appropriated the cat from what she saw as an undeserving family).
Little Mum, small, cream-coloured with a ginger face and beauty spot soon produced a single kitten.  At this point I'm beginning to wonder what she was called before she produced the said kitten - have a feeling it was soemthing like Marie Antoninette - naming cats not being a strong point in our family.  I was allowed to name the new arrival and decided that 'Pinky' would suit - yes, the naming weakness is obviously genetic.
Unfortunately the small bundle of fur with his tiny pink nose grew into a monster cat and got even bigger when he was neutered.  Pinky was not an attractive cat; large,white and flabby with strangely small ears; but despite this he and Nan became a mutual admiration society.  Every day he would wait at the bus stop for her to return from work - he would first jump into her arms and then settle himself around her neck and lick her ears with his raspy tongue.  Nan would stagger home, being a diminutive woman (4 foot 10 with size 3 feet and small 'aristocractic hands' - her words not mine) with her loving bundle.  Sadly Pinky wasn't awfully bright, didn't understand the concept of the weekend and could often be found at the bus stop when Nan was indoors watching TV.

Nan, Pépé and the lamb chops

Most of my childhood holidays were spent in Ramsgate as we could stay cheaply with Nan's mother, a deceptively sweet-looking old lady.
One summer when Nan and I arrived at Great Gran's flat after the lengthy trip from Oxford to Kent we were greeted by the lovely, greasy aroma of roast lamb.
 'That smell's good,' says Nan enthusiastically - it being sometime since we'd eaten our banana sandwiches. 
Great Gran smiles indulgently 'I always do Pépé a couple of lamb chops on a Saturday, don't I my darling boy?' 
Great Gran's small grey poodle wags his stumpy tail.  'If you two are peckish I think the Chippie is still open.'