My lovely, lovey mum died in hospital on Sunday night, aged 87.
We are comforted that she managed, until last Thursday to live independently in her home of 48 years. She wouldn’t have wished for anything else.
On Saturday I received direction from my brother that she wanted a trifle taking when I visited the hospital that evening, it was late in the day and I feared she’d be disappointed with my earlier choice of fresh fruit salad. But when I got there she was not looking well at all, she didn’t want anything, except she told me, ‘If you see any pork pies, the ones with jelly in, will you bring one?’ Really, given my last post, I couldn’t have made it up. It was not to be.
Here is Mum in 1928, a couple of years ahead of the game on cuteness, curls and Shirley Temple. Dressed appropriately for the hideous storms that are raging across the UK tonight.