Someone asked me how I was coping after mum's death and I replied, "Calmly. Rationally. With humour and lashings of respect. Topped off with a heavy heart filled with much love, and the care and joy she gave us."  When I read it back, I realised those words pretty much sum mum up, minus the heavy heart.


Many memories of mum revolve around food; spaghetti on Saturdays, mince mash & peas, teaching me how to make a tomato sauce, a white sauce, a fail-safe sponge, and fakés, each of which set me up for life.


I see her kneeling on the kitchen floor in Loom Lane reading the newspaper as her arms were too short to hold the broadsheet upright.  Our four names on notes left out intentionally at Christmas time, goading us to turn them over, only to find the present list scribed in indecipherable shorthand.


I hear her uttering "oh boomerang!" as her expletive and the laughter we shared as she read me Wind in the Willows with Mr Toad “poop pooping”.  I sense her disappointment when I say tishoo instead of tissue, and woe betide anyone saying different to!


I recall her grasp of technology being a constant source of amusement and frustration, with every phone call to her mobile starting with "Hi Mum. Don't hang up. Don't hang up. Oh, she hung up."  Peering round her laptop, looking for the side return as the characters reached the edge of the screen.


Overridingly, I remember her generosity, kindness and her nurturing soul. A friend of mine told me that mum provided her with so much that she didn't have in her home environment during her teen years. Mum intuitively knew how to communicate with Martin, drew mermaids for Netty on demand and gifted Toby Mousey Brown, his favourite cuddly toy.  I thank the three of them for opening up their home to Granny.


Most importantly for me, I had the honour of caring for her.  Whilst giggling at the silliest of things, we acknowledged the tough cards she'd been dealt. I suspect towards the very end, that although she knew me, she may have forgotten I was her daughter.  But she never stopped being my most precious mum. How lucky was I!