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*****

 You can follow me on Twitter @grenglishblog, find me on Facebook, and on Pinterest as Grenglish

In 3-months time, I will turn 40. 

I am surprisingly ok with it, looking forward to it even.

I wish I had felt this calm about turning 30, but at the time it literally felt like the worst thing that could have happened to me, like, EVER.

I was not ready to turn 30.  I had not achieved any of the things that I assumed I would.  I did not like my job, my semi-boyfriend, or my hair. 

I spent every penny I earned on myself, and complained about never having any money to spend on myself.

If only I could go back in time, I would give myself a jolly good talking to. 

Tell myself that the best is yet to come.

Of course, my 29-year old self would laugh in my face and offer me a glass of wine, which my 39-year old self would refuse because it is the middle of the afternoon and I have to work the next day.

She would look me up and down, in my ballet flats and mum jeans, and want to cry at what has become of my eyebrows.

I’d suggest that she might want to stop bouncing cheques to Dominos Pizza, and my 29-year old self will roll her eyes at me, like she does to our mother.

We’d sit on the steps of my old basement flat in Maida Vale, while she smokes and bitches about one of her new flatmates.

I’d reassure her that everything is about to change.

That a redhead from Vancouver is going to enter her life the following year and she will make everything better. 

That her other flatmate, the one she is not bitching about, will remain in her life, and in her heart, for a very long time to come.

The 29-year old me will not be able to see it, of course.  It was all about her back then. 

The man you are with is not the man you will love, I’d say. 

She’d smile at this, but then I would have to warn her that it was going to get a whole lot worse before it got any better.

That the year to follow would be her toughest. 

She will think that I am about to tell her that Selfridges is about to close its doors, or even worse, that she will never be able to drink in Soho House again.

At this point in her life, her biggest concern is over how many pairs of shoes to pack for Cannes.

We’ll go back inside and she’ll arrange to meet her sister for pizza.  They will drink rosé in the sun for the rest of the afternoon and as they stagger home, more bottles of wine will clink together in their bags.

This girl is not ready to turn 30.  She thinks it sounds too old.

But as I keep trying to tell her, the best is yet to come.

*****

You can follow me on Twitter @grenglishblog, find me on Facebook, and on Pinterest as Grenglish

There is so much I love about where I live.

From the tree-lined streets and pretty parks, to the bustling high street and plentiful pubs.

Museums, acres of estate land, and a world-famous gallery, which is currently collaborating on a project with some of the biggest names in international street art to create murals on specially commissioned walls all over the area.

It is quite stunning.

Friends.

Some friendships were formed with parents of other young local children.  Others, when needing a hobby outside of our family life, a time to just be ourselves, led the Greek God(zilla) to the local cricket club and myself to the WI.

We met friends of friends in the area, who have now very much become friends – the ‘of’ no longer required.

Through blogging, where friendships made online crossed over into real life.

Then there is the sense of community that for me, stems from the local friendships we have made.

It is hard to believe that when I first moved to the area 5/6 years ago, I barely knew another soul.  My social life was tied up in the Greek God(zilla)’s, or I would spend over an hour traipsing back to West London to catch-up with my old friends.  As time went by and we started a family, these trips became few and far between.  I was home alone with a small baby and felt very isolated at times, so I had to really make an effort to get to know people.

It certainly did not happen overnight, but our home does finally feel like home to me now.

One weekend, we may arrange to have friends over for Sunday lunch, perhaps a midweek drink after work, or a Saturday morning coffee and playdate.  There are people to stop and chat to in the street, to say hello to in the park, or wave across to in the supermarket aisles.

So, when Angela from SE Mags invited me to volunteer at the Dulwich Festival Fair again on Sunday, I agreed, mainly because if there is anything I love more than a list, it is a laminated list presented to me on a clipboard.

WITH A BADGE.

But also because I was happy to have the opportunity to be involved in such a popular community event.

Plus, I got to help a friend out, obviously.

I do not know if anyone can really appreciate how much work goes into organising these things.

Over 100 stalls were set up on Goose Green in preparation for vendors to come and sell their wares.  Bouncy castles were inflated for the kids and face painting areas were assigned.  For the grown-ups, there was live music and beer tents at each end.  Local food traders cooked in pop-up kitchens and the EDWI sold homemade cakes, biscuits and jams.

before the crowds

ice cream

East Dulwich WI stall

I arrived at 9am to help guide the stall holders to their relevant pitches, but the organisers started around 5am when the first of the equipment started to arrive, and did not leave until after everyone else had gone and the area had been completely cleared.

All I had to do was walk around with my clipboard, flash my official badge and ask people to pack-up and move their cars off the grass.   Most of the questions directed at me were in relation to the location of the loos or the nearest bin. 

My contribution was minimal, but I was still totally zonked at the end of the day and even stood down a quick drink in the pub for a yummy roast chicken with my family at home.

However, I had so much fun being Angela’s ’Clipboard Bitch’ that I have already volunteered my services again for next year… if she’ll have me, that is

*****

You can follow me on Twitter @grenglishblog, find me on Facebook, and on Pinterest as Grenglish

Greek Easter Sunday is one of my favourite days of the year. 

The Greek God(zilla)’s family throws a big party and invite all of their friends and family over to celebrate.  This year, the party was held for the first time at Griwi Manor, the home of my sister-in-law. 

There will have been much planning in the days leading up to the event.  As well as deciding where to set up the barbecue, worrying about how to accommodate 40 people, and what will happen in the event of a torrential downpour - there was also the challenge of making sure that Yiayia put her feet up and did not lift a finger. 

We failed dismally. 

However, as much as Yiayia loves to help with all the food, I do think that she was secretly pleased not to be burdened with all the washing up, or all the tipsy people dancing in her garden until the early hours.

It was a glorious sunny day when we arrived.  The lamb was browning nicely on the barbecue, the drinks were chilling in bins full of ice, and the eggs were painted and ready for the annual egg cracking contest.

The cracking of the eggs is a traditional Greek Easter game and the rules are very simple.  

A few days before, the eggs will have been hard-boiled and soaked in dye.  On Easter Sunday, each guest is then invited to choose ‘their’ egg from a selection on the table.  The game involves each person tapping the egg of another guest, with the intention of cracking the shell of their opponent’s egg, without breaking their own.

The player who successfully cracks the eggs of all the other players is declared the winner and, it is said, will have good luck throughout the rest of the year.

Now, for the past two years it has been little Archie Bear, my 3-year old nephew, who has held the lucky egg. 

He was very excited to be defending his title for another year and excitedly held his egg out to me.

I took him out in one small tap.

I moved ruthlessly around the garden and completely obliterated the competition ONE BY ONE.  I avoided eye contact with the younger kids, as their little faces crumbled in front of me as I triumphed time and time again.

A crowd slowly started to gather around me and the other remaining player, one of the 2-year old Griwi twins.

I knelt down beside him and gently held my egg out for him to take the first tap. 

My steely facade threatened to slip as my beloved godson went in for a tap and made a tiny crack on one side of my shell. 

BOOM! 

He went straight in again without any hesitation. 

BAM!

Another hit…  but the top end of my egg still remained in tact, while his was starting to slowly disintegrate around him.  Bits of shell were starting to stick to his little fingers, but he was not admitting defeat very easily.

Eventually, it was his own mother who called time on the battle and generously declared me to be the 2013 Egg Cracking Champion.

A bitter-sweet victory, in all honesty.

But, I’ll take all the luck I can get.

The One Where I Am The Winner  has a nice ring to it for a blog post, I thought to myself.

Little did I know that drama was about to strike and although I had successfully claimed the Egg Title, this Easter blog post would belong to Yiayia.

With our bellies full of meat, lemon potatoes and spanakopita,  our glasses refilled, and the eggs all cracked, it was time for Yiayia to drive Papou home.

I do not know who noticed the big gash in her front tyre first, but we suspect it was not Yiayia and that she had actually been driving around with this flat for at least a day.

I also quietly wondered to myself if it was merely a coincidence that the Greek God(zilla) had been driving around in Yiayia’s car just  a couple of days before, when he took her to North London to buy the lamb for the bbq…

The reason this thought even entered my mind will be of NO SURPRISE to regular readers of this blog, which incidentally should really be sponsored by a breakdown recovery company, or Sat Nav.

Yiayia called all the men kerbside to help… and they all looked on in awe as Rob demonstrated how to change a tyre.

Am I the only one to find it absolutely hilarious that the thought of there not being enough potatoes for everyone to be able to have at least 4 servings each, was enough to bring Yiayia out in hives… yet the fact that she had been driving around with a slashed tyre, for at least a day, and to replace it will come at considerable cost… was enough to have her in absolute stitches laughing for the rest of the day?

 Only at Greekster

*****

I’ve reached the shortlist for a Brilliance in Blogging Award in the Family category!   Thank you so much to everyone who nominated me and has supported me so far.  If you would like to see Grenglish in the finals, please take a moment to vote here.

*****

You can follow me on Twitter @grenglishblog, find me on Facebook, and on Pinterest as Grenglish

It is Greek Easter this weekend, a big event that preparations have been underway for since final orders were called on last Easter.

The format is always the same.

Friends and family descend upon Yiayia and Papou’s house in the early afternoon.  Lamb will have already been roasting for hours and the garden will have been furnished with an array of tables and chairs.

The Greek God(zilla) and BB will take turns to man the barbecue, although the Greek God(zilla)’s interpretation of this will be sitting down with a cold beer and shouting out orders for BB to turn the sausages.

BB will look over at me and roll her eyes.  I will nod along sympathetically, but actually feel delighted she is able to relieve me from being the sole recipient of my husband’s ‘humour’.

Eva will greet all of the guests and offer drinks.  You might at first witness this gesture and brush it off as a relatively small offering to the day’s proceedings.  However, Eva’s true role is as Yiayia’s Lieutenant and she oversees every detail.

Each chair will have been strategically positioned to not only be in equal distance of the food and the house, but also facing the correct direction in order to avoid the glare of the afternoon sun.

If it is more lemon potatoes that you require, then it will be Eva who will make sure to let you know exactly where to stand, at exactly what time, to make sure you get first dibs.

One of the little Griwi* twins will be charging around in his wellies, a football tucked under his arm; the other one will probably be eating.  Zachy will be chasing the one holding the football, unless the big Griwi twins are there.  If the big Griwi twins are there, he will insist on them chasing him around the garden, or attempting to crash tackle one of them to the ground while they are trying to play cricket.

The coloured eggs will be handed out and the annual egg smashing contest will begin.  Archie Bear will defend his championship title for the second year running.  He is three.

At some point, the Greek music will be switched off and Spandau Ballet will blare out of the iPod speakers.  Some people will start to dance around the garden, at which point Yiayia will retire to the sofa for the remainder of the evening.

Except this year it is going to be a bit different because for the first time EVER, the Greekster celebrations will be hosted at Chez Griwi.

I am certain that some aspects of the traditional festivities will remain.

The kids will do what they always do, no matter how many times they are told not to.

Yiayia will still prepare most of the food, but it will be Griwi Dad manning the BBQ.  This is obviously an area of expertise for a Kiwi, so will give BB and the Greek God(zilla) plenty of time for uninterrupted drinking.  In turn, this will undoubtedly ensure that the ancient Greek tradition of dancing about the garden to Fleetwood Mac lives on for another year.

I have blogged before about how I file Greek Easters in my head as though they are episodes of Friends.  So far, we have had The One Where BB Got Stuck On The Roof; The One Where BB Got Wet; The One Where BB Didn’t Drink; The One Where BB Got Rat Arsed on White Wine; The One Where BB Brought Her New Fella; and The One That Nobody Mentions.

Who knows what tomorrow has in store for us all, but hopefully it will be The One Where The Sun Shone All Day Long And Everyone Had a Jolly Nice Time.

Christos Anesti!

*Griwi (one of Greek/Kiwi heritage)

*****

I’ve reached the shortlist for a Brilliance in Blogging Award in the Family category!   Thank you so much to everyone who nominated me and has supported me so far.  If you would like to see Grenglish in the finals, please take a moment to vote here.

*****

You can follow me on Twitter @grenglishblog, find me on Facebook, and on Pinterest as Grenglish

If I am being completely honest with myself, I had not been feeling quite right, for quite some time.

I blamed being a working mum for my tiredness.  I blamed tiredness for my brain fog.  I blamed brain fog for my forgetfulness.

I felt guilty for not being more capable.  I crammed our weekends with so much activity, so I would not feel tempted to lie flat on the sofa and leave my son to entertain himself.

I really wanted to lie flat on the sofa and leave my son to entertain himself.

But I didn’t.

I kept going.  The more defeated my body felt, the more determined I was to push on through.

I blogged about my how my tolerance to late nights had changed and how I needed more sleep than ever before, but was getting so much less of it.

I visited the doctor for minor ailments – dry skin, a rash, mouth ulcers, chin acne, anxiety.  They said I was run down.

I suffered two miscarriages.   Just unlucky, they reassured me.

I had no idea that all of these symptoms were actually linked, until a blood test revealed I had thyroid antibodies, and these antibodies were wrongly attacking my thyroid gland and attempting to destroy it like it was the mortal enemy.

The thyroid gland has two main functions: the first is to control metabolism and the second function is to control growth in early life.  It is situated in the front of your neck, just below the Adams Apple and is shaped like a small butterfly.

When thyroid function is compromised by pesky antibodies trying to stop it from doing its job, it can lead to all sorts of problems.  Symptoms can include weight gain, tiredness, depression, being sensitive to the cold, dry skin and hair and muscle aches, but there are hundreds more.

Now, there is so much about the thyroid that I still don’t really understand.  My GP has been very supportive and referred me to a specialist, who I hope will be able to explain what this means for me in a way I will be able to make sense of.

What I have discovered so far, is that having these antibodies means I am more likely to develop hypothyroidism at some point.   There is some indication that this might be occurring to some extent already.  It also means I have a 60% chance of miscarriage, should I fall pregnant again.  Thyroiditis falls into the autoimmune area, so means sufferers are at a greater risk of developing other autoimmune conditions, such as Lupus or coeliacs disease.

Through my own research, I have found there is some evidence that eliminating gluten from my diet would be beneficial, as gluten can also trigger an antibody attack on the thyroid.

So, until I meet with the specialist I have cut out all gluten.  I actually do feel a lot better for it.  My head does not feel as heavy and I feel much less confused.  I have been able to stay up later in the evenings and have stopped waking at 4am, so I feel less tired.  After a bit of a blip in the first few weeks, my tolerance to alcohol has significantly improved.  I am able to drink two glasses of wine again without feeling hammered, passing out, or throwing up.

Gluten-free definitely suits me, but more importantly, a subsequent blood test after starting the diet showed that my thyroid antibody levels had decreased.

But some days, it feels as though this is yet another thing that I have to deal with.

Another thing that I am responsible for fixing.

That my body is failing me.  Again.

Then other days, I feel relieved.

I am capable; I am not mad.

It has a name.  Hashimoto’s.

It can be treated.

It is real.

*****

I found so much helpful information on Hypothyroid Mom. I also emailed the author, Dana, who was really lovely and advised me on additional tests to ask for when I met with my doctor again.

*****

I’ve reached the shortlist for a Brilliance in Blogging Award in the Family category!   Thank you so much to everyone who nominated me and has supported me so far.  If you would like to see Grenglish in the finals, please take a moment to vote here.

*****

You can follow me on Twitter @grenglishblog, find me on Facebook, and on Pinterest as Grenglish

Photo Credit: esther** via Compfight cc

“You’re a stinky poo-poo head” my 3-year old said to me this morning before dissolving into a fit of giggles.

“I’m going to do a pop on your lap!” he howled out loud as I attempted to manoeuvre him into his underpants, one leg at a time.

“Smell my bum” he laughed after he actually did.

“Are we going to have poo for breakfast?” he added cheekily as we made our way downstairs.

“It’s Peppa Poo!” he pointed out to me as we passed his collection of Peppa Pig sticker books.

“I need a poo” he announced conveniently, just as we were about to leave the house.

There is so much talk of poo in my house at the moment that I have been forced to create rules around the appropriate use of the word. 

Like, no poo talk at the dinner table; no poo talk in front of strangers; and absolutely no shouting out of “Mummy are you doing a big stinky poo” when we are visiting a friend’s house (again).

When Zachy and his cousin get together, the poo talk is even more exaggerated.

After tucking them both up in bed one night, the Greek God(zilla) and I listened to their conversation from outside the door.

“I’m Zachy poo-poo and you’re Archie wee-wee”

“No, I’m Archie poo-poo and you’re Zachy wee-wee”

Cue simultaneous chuckling.

Then, there was the time I scolded them for talking about runny poo at the table while I was serving up spaghetti bolognaise for tea, so they simply shrugged and adjourned to the sofa instead.

They will happily sit and trade poo insults to each other for hours. 

But where does it come from, and why do they find poo so funny?

Maybe it is a consequence of my over enthusiastic potty training… but in those early days, poos were so rare that the mere hint of one on the runway was applauded and cheered, but definitely no laughing matter.

Perhaps it is my take no prisoners attitude to dog poo in the park that is partly to blame, as I regularly call out for him not to step in it, touch it, or prod at it with a stick.

Or, is this just what little 3-year old boys do and much like his father, may never entirely grow out of?

Is it really only a matter of time before he starts asking me to pull his finger? 

*****

I’ve reached the shortlist for a Brilliance in Blogging Award in the Family category!   Thank you so much to everyone who nominated me and has supported me so far.  If you would like to see Grenglish in the finals, please take a moment to vote here.

You can follow me on Twitter @grenglishblog, find me on Facebook, and on Pinterest as Grenglish

Zachy went to stay with my parents this weekend. He’s had an overnight with Yiayia and Papou a couple of times before, but we still tucked him up in bed and stayed in a hotel 15-minutes up the road, before going back to pick him up again in the morning.

This was his first proper night away from us. My parents came over on Saturday morning to collect him for a weekend by the sea, and we did not see him again until Sunday afternoon.

Their house is completely kitted out for grandchildren. They have a swing set and sand pit in the garden, plus an inflatable ball to climb into and roll around in.

While my Mum was happy to indulge Zachy’s every request for storiesi, ice-cream and juice; my Dad will never tire of being climbed on and pretending to be a horse, a bear or a scary monster.

It is a win-win situation.

So when a friend of ours invited us to her 40th birthday party, we booked Zachy into Chez Grandparents for the night and decided to make the most of it.

I think they were thrilled to have him all to themselves, without us getting in the way of them completely spoiling him. They stocked their fridge with of all his favourite foods and despite having three empty bedrooms, they let him sleep in a Buzz Lightyear bed at the foot of theirs.

If anything, I was worried that he would not want to come back home.

My Dad also has a new toy he wanted to share with him.

Big Boy’s Toy

Meanwhile, the Greek God(zilla) mowed the lawn and I sank into the sofa to watch Dexter and The Good Wife during Peppa Pig viewing hours.

I took my time getting ready for our friend’s party. I had a nice long bath, washed my hair and even shaved my legs.

I tried on a variety of outfits until I found one that was appropriate for my age and size.

I ran hot tongs through my hair and curled my eyelashes.

The Greek God(zilla) had a couple of beers in the garden and listened to the radio until 20-mins before we were due to leave, at which time I was still undecided on shoes and accessories. Funny the little things you pay attention to when you have the time.

At the party, we drank Prosecco, chatted to people we had never met before, and danced the night away without fear of having to deal with a 3-year old in six hours time.

We slept in, made cups of tea, dozed on and off, and finally got out of bed around 3pm.

It was lovely to have a proper rest, take a break from the usual Saturday kids playground/playdate/party circuit and sit on the sofa eating crisps all day; but when my Mum sent the photos of all the fun they were having together, there was only one place I really wanted to be.

*****

I’ve made the Britmums Brilliance in Blogging Awards shortlist in the Family category! If you would like to vote for me to reach the finals, please click here to vote for Grenglish or any of the other fab blogs shortlisted.

You can follow me on Twitter @grenglishblog, find me on Facebook, and on Pinterest as Grenglish

]]> http://grenglish.co.uk/a-weekend-off/feed/ 6 http://grenglish.co.uk/our-wedding/?utm_source=rss&utm_medium=rss&utm_campaign=our-wedding http://grenglish.co.uk/our-wedding/#comments Tue, 16 Apr 2013 07:00:36 +0000 Grenglish http://grenglish.co.uk/?p=6631

Three years ago today, the Greek God(zilla) and I were married in the Blue room at Marylebone Registry office, exactly 4-years to the day after we first met, and in front of only 30 of our closest family and friends.

It was lovely.

We did not put in months of planning, audition any bands, or attend a single cake tasting.  We simply booked a room, invited our guests by email, and held the reception at The Landmark Hotel opposite.

We did not think to organise a gift list, I ordered my dress online, and the music played via my iPod.

All this makes it sound like it was a bit rubbish, but it was genuinely one of the most wonderful days of my life.

The Greek God(zilla) proposed to me in Barbados when I was  5-months pregnant.  He gave me the most beautiful pear shaped diamond ring that I could just about squeeze onto my fat swollen finger.

Then we put the plans to one side for a few months while we focused on bringing our son safely into the world.

I think Zachy was about 3-months old when we set a date for 4-months later.  I booked The Landmark, primarily because of its location to the registry office, but also because it is a beautiful hotel and I knew they would look after us.

I surfed the net for my wedding dress.  I did not want a long gown, as every one I tried on made me feel like I was wearing fancy dress and I wanted something less showy.  I eventually found just what I was looking for online at Net-a Porter and bought a dress by Australian designers, Lover, which seemed so appropriate.

Dress by Lover; Shoes by Prada

Not just for the romantic name, but because I lived in Australia for a year during my twenties and it seemed apt to represent a part of my life that could not physically be there on the day.

So it may have been a bit far for my Australian buddies to travel, but my besties in L.A., Dubai and Ireland made it.  Well most of them did anyway.

Beautiful C, my old flatmate in Maida Vale, flew in from L.A. to be one of our witnesses, along with the Greek God(zilla)’s sister, BB.  Lins & Paul flew in from Dubai and Lins joined my sister and the Greek God(zilla)’s youngest sister, Eva, as Bridesmaids.

Dad escorts the girls to the wedding

Donna had a relatively short trip from Dublin in comparison, but Icelandic ash stopped her flight from taking off and she was grounded in Ireland for the weekend.

But Susy and Katie, my girls, were there and we dialled Donna in for a conference call later that day.  I received a message from my dearest Steve in Sydney and from Pete in Toronto, and I really was touched beyond belief.

missing Donna

Babes

I am very fortunate in that my sister is an Emmy award nominated (!) make-up artist and worked her magic on me for free.  However, I made the mistake of booking myself into the hotel salon for a blow dry on the morning of the wedding and HATED what they did to me.  Even looking at photos now, I do not like my hair.

bad hair day

The reception was held in the penthouse Tower Suite, overlooking the atrium.  We had just three tables of 12 and all the booze you could manage.

Our wedding cake was a strawberry cheesecake, which is always our dessert of choice.  If we ever go out to eat and there is cheesecake on the menu, the Greek God(zilla) will have to have it.  Even though he is ‘allergic’ to uncooked cheese, apparently… although I think the word he is actually looking for is ‘picky’.

The speeches made me cry, especially my Dad’s and my new husband’s.   One of the Greek God(zilla)’s Best Men got my name wrong in his speech.  I am sure it was just his nerves getting the better of him and not that he copied and pasted the same speech from when he Best Man at his brother’s wedding… if you are reading this Jon, I am just kidding!  It was very funny and everyone had a chuckle about it.

The Best Men

We did not have a first dance as such, but did have a big group dance huddle to GOLD by Spandau Ballet.

It really was the most wonderful day.  I’d say second only to the day that Zachy was born.

Happy face

Happy Anniversary to you my darling husband.  Thank you for the most wonderful 3-years (and 4 before that) and I look forward to spending many many more happy times with you.

*****

You can follow me on Twitter @grenglishblog, find me on Facebook,

and on Pinterest as Grenglish

 

 

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This is my Nan. She is 80 years old today.

I know what you are thinking – she does not look a day over 25, right?

Check out her fabulous legs too! I wish I had inherited those pins.

Unfortunately, my legs came with 75% extra free.

That’s my Grandad in the photo with her, he passed away suddenly when I was 12.

My Nan was around the age I am now, when my surprise arrival made her a Grandmother. She’s had another 13 grandchildren and nine great-grandchildren since then.

She was born in East London within the sound of the Bow bells, which makes her a true cockney. Although to my knowledge, she is not a gangster. She likes a strong cuppa, loves to read and enjoys the cigs.

She was only six when she was evacuated with her brother and sister during the war and packed off to Oxford, where they traipsed the streets hand in hand, trying to find someone to take them all in. Her only belongings were her gas mask, which she carried over her shoulder, and a little rag doll that my great-grandmother had made for her.

They lived in three different houses over six-years. One of which they had to be removed from due to neglect and another, they had to clean from top to bottom in order to earn their keep.

By the time she was returned back to her parents, she was 12-years old and had three new brothers. My great-grandmother loved to go out and have fun – she would still have been dancing on tables in her 90s if someone had given her a leg up to it – so it naturally fell to my Nan to clean the house and look after her younger siblings.

No wonder she married young, at just seventeen… and gave birth to her first daughter, Susan, 2-months later. Quite the scandal in those days, I should imagine! The young family stayed with her parents initially, but space was tight and with no room for a cot, my Auntie Sue had to sleep in a drawer. Realising this was less than ideal, they moved in with my great-grandmother on my grandad’s side instead. However, this was not much of an improvement as they all found themselves sharing one room and converting another into a joint kitchen/bathroom area.

Despite this, they still found a way to have another two baby girls – my Auntie Linda and my mum.

Eventually, the family moved in to a home of their own, where three more babies were born! Two boys to even out the brood, Mick and John, and then another girl, Jackie, finally completed the family.

Nappies were being washed and hung out to dry so often that their friends nicknamed their house Nappy Valley.

With six children, you would think there was no time for socialising but my Grandparents would still throw parties every single weekend. Like her mother before her, my Nan loved to dance. The house was always bustling with people popping in and out to say hello, to have a drink and a chat.

With six mouths to feed, my Nan took a job at a local Old Age Pensioners Club and ended up running the place. The club was a place for retired folk to hang out together during the day. They could play cards and bingo, join a keep fit class or just have a gossip over lunch with friends. I remember going there with my sister every day after school to wait for my mum to pick us up. My Nan also used to organise a big party for the members there every year at Christmas, which as I got a bit older, I was allowed to waitress at. I’d always order Snowballs from the bar and sneak a spare one out the back to drink with my cousins.

Even when she was working, she still put a home cooked meal on the table every night – some of my mum’s fondest memories are of steak and kidney pudding, bacon and onion suet pudding, lamb casserole and many many roast dinners.

Every week, all the kids would have to line up for a spoonful of cod liver oil. They went on big family coach trips to Walton on the Naze. All the girls’ dresses were hand sewn… and often identical.

I am not sure when, but at some point when I was young, my Nan was diagnosed with having lupus. At the time, lupus was still very rare and poorly understood. There was so little information about the condition available that she was held up as a special case, and asked to stand in front of student doctors as a test study.

Although she would live with this illness for the rest of her life, she refused to let it define her.  She made few compromises to her lifestyle and continued to work like a horse, party like a rock star and smoke like a chimney. 

Her remarkable life has spanned nine decades. There have been ups and there have been downs. She has raised six children and run a business. She lost her husband too soon, but travelled the world. Her beginnings might have started poor, but she has led a rich life. This weekend, the 44 members of her immediate family (including one via skype from Australia) will meet to surprise her with a big birthday celebration. Four generations of one family are to spend the night together in the same house, just as they might have done in the olden days, although this time no-one will be required to sleep in a drawer.

It will be a good old-fashioned cockney knees-up.

My Nan may not be up dancing on the table at the end of the night, but there is every chance that we all might be.

*****

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