My gran was all bosom. I used to sit on her bed with its pink quilted coverlet and looked through her prayer book because it had the most lovely holy cards, all scalloped edges and gilding, and glued linen squares that had touched a saint’s body part (I am not joking – that’s the tongue of St Anthony below).
But not all grans are good. Livia from the Sopranos. My other one, who died before I was born, was a bit of a handful, or so I gather from my mother very carefully not badmouthing her.
A. lost his gran yesterday. She was ancient and lost in her childhood and young life, all mixed in with stuff from New Idea. Vale.
Before this post goes all I-will-wear-purple I was going to list some of my favorite bad grans of fiction – but I realised all the good ones seemed like grannies, but actually are just crones. Maybe that’s why they like to enslave or eat children, denied more natural relationships. What is the crone anyway?
If we all made pickled people, would our fears of ageing diminish?