Vale Grantie

Lady Distance has flexed her slightly tyrannical muscles in the last couple of weeks, with both Ants and I farewelling our mothers' mothers from half a world away, just 10 days apart. Anthony's 'Narnie' is remembered for her pikelets - for me, my brothers and cousins, it's the icypoles that 'Grantie' used to keep in the freezer (and her ginger cake - yum).

Both women were well into their 80s and had outlived husbands, siblings and friends by many years. While it's sad for us who will miss them, there is something natural and organic about someone living to a ripe old age, falling ill for a few days and then slipping peacefully away.

My grandfather, (who we called Grumps), used to say that no-one is truly dead until the last person who knew and loved them is also gone, because only then do the memories go too. I like to think that I prove him right every time I tell someone about that.

I'd last had the chance to see my grandmother when I was home in January. She'd become steadily less independent over the year I'd been away, and I think we both expected that she wouldn't be around whenever I next went home. So we both had a chance to say some lasting things, including goodbye, and exchange some final cards and photos in the months I've been back here. She was always just so proud of the things that I considered important - studying hard, doing good work, travelling, making music, holding it together after losing Mikko, and giving back to the universe...

She swore that having her grandkids around helped keep her young, but was always adamant that any of us who were travelling when she 'fell off her perch' should keep having a good time - and that she'd be 'jolly cross' if we upended our lives 'for an old lady's funeral'. When I first arrived in London, my cousin Sam (who is truly wise beyond his 25 years) and I had a long chat about 'what would we do if Grantie dies while we're here'. I'm secretly relieved Sam's gone home, because I'd made some rash promise about toasting her health with copious quantities of gin somewhere in London. In Sammy's absence I settled for red wine, and I think Grantie would have approved...

So apart from wanting to hug my mum and share stories with my cousins I'm okay. We're doing the shared stories thing by email - I had a gorgeous message from the lovely Becky, whose sister Sarah has a gorgeous nearly-4-year old named Alexander Beansprout (nickname, obviously!)

"Oh...you asked about little Alex...well he has been gorgeous with Sarah. Each time she cries he pulls a funny face to try and cheer her up. And Sarah said that Grantie has gone away to heaven, and he asked where that was. Paul told him it was somewhere near Mildura but even further and you can't visit there. He was sooo gorgeous and he asked Sarah if they could just ring Grantie in heaven to say goodbye!!"

I'm suddenly having all these visions of Sarah explaining to Alex that a funeral is a chance to ask God to get a message to Grantie, or maybe that by all singing together at once, very loud, she can hear us herself, all the way off in heaven... then Alex checking out the coffin and telling everyone "It's okay, she's not in Mildura, she's here... "

Oh dear, sometimes I really have no shame at all... But I really don't think Grantie would mind.