I could write a book about Granny – probably several books [...]]]> My grandmother – my father’s mother – has been an enormously influential figure in my life, as she has been in the life of just about every other member of my family. She is 98 now, and still a formidable and at times very intimidating character.

I could write a book about Granny – probably several books – and there is no hope of summing up her immensely complicated personality in a few paragraphs. My feelings towards her are a mixture of tremendous admiration and a frustration that at times borders on contempt. She is a fiercely intelligent, fiercely independent woman, who was born at quite the wrong time in history. Denied the university education and the freedom that would have allowed her to develop into the kind of person she wanted to be, she instead had to conform to the norms of a society that kept women very much in line. While her brother went to university, travelled, became a celebrated poet and academic, war hero and muse, she went to college to study the domestic arts, married twice, had children, worked and did her best to appear respectable. Had she been born today, I very much suspect she would have turned her nose up at all those things and flounced around the world being scandalous and bohemian. It’s entirely possible she wouldn’t have been satisfied even then, but I am quite certain she would have been more fulfilled.

My admiration is for her immense intellect and fascination with the world, as well as her steely insistence on doing things her way. At least until very recently, when Granny did something, she did it properly, and refused to countenance anything that didn’t match up to her unstinting measures of perfection. She taught me thoroughness and the pleasure in getting something just right. She taught me to enjoy the ritual of a well-made cup of tea, the beauty of a well-planned garden, the delights of conversation, of intellectual debate, of analysing the motives and shortcomings of others. She taught me pride, independence, privacy, contempt for weakness, and a measure of disdain for men. Not all these things, you will notice, are good.

My frustrations are mostly to do with her refusal to admit to any faults. Her pride is so strong that it is impossible to ever reproach her for anything; any attempts to point out inconsistencies or unfairnesses are met with incomprehension, dismissal, dissembling, or fury. From a very young age I learnt never to challenge her directly on any matter. If I wanted to communicate my disapproval I did the only thing I could and avoided her. This means that our relationship has always lacked honesty, and I have never felt very close or loving towards her despite having spent immense amounts of time in her company. I have always wanted her to turn some of her fierce intellect inwards, and to display a more human side so that we could have a proper relationship, rather than the somewhat shallow alliance we’ve had to settle for.

In recent years, I have spent quite long periods of time at home (until recently she lived next door to my parents) and have had the opportunity to witness at close hand what happens when a woman’s body withers while her mind remains as sharp as a tack. My grandmother’s physical decline, which has proceeded slowly but inexorably, has been the starkest illustration of the maxim carpe diem I could ever have had. I have tried to live the life Granny never could. Since I finished university I have seized every good opportunity that has come my way: I have travelled far, worked hard, met many people, taken risks, loved and lost, tried and failed. As I get older and start to envisage my own middle and old age, she, rightly or wrongly, has become my model. When I make decisions now, it is with her at the back of my mind. When my body fails, and I can no longer travel, drive, work, converse with ease, read without a magnifying glass, or indeed do anything without being dosed up on copious amounts of medication, I want to be confident that I lived life to the absolute fullest while I had the opportunity to do so. From my vantage point, extreme old age is a ghastly state. When there is nothing left for one to do apart from sit in a chair and wait for death, memories and the company of loved ones are all the sustenance that remains, and when one’s mind is still lively enough to crave the real joys in life, such sustenance is painfully inadequate.