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.'

Nan and the egg flan

I wouldn't describe Nan as a gifted or even enthusiastic cook; but her cooking reflected her personality - generous, colourful and just slightly strange.
 
My continuing love of the tinned tomato stems from Nan's trademark Sunday breakfast - scrambled eggs served with at least two slices of white bloomer and submerged with tinned tomatoes and juice.  The eggs were beaten using a miniature plunger in a pyrex glass.  The glass was decorated with the heads of the Fab Four - a little creepy when their eyes went yellow, but it did produce a satisfying froth.

One of her culinary specialities was egg flan; economical as it was made with as much pastry as filling.  The pastry could only be eaten if soaked liberally (and for sometime) with gravy - after applying gravy it was necessary to eat all the filling, the mashed potatoes and green beans before attempting the pastry.
The flan was always cooked in an oval heatproof glass dish that was reputed to be unbreakable.   One day, when getting the flan out of the oven, Nan burnt her hand on the oven shelf and dropped the dish.  What might have been a lunchtime calamity turned into a mealtime miracle when the dish shattered into many pieces, but the flan - encased in its concrete pastry jacket remained in one piece.