is an important tribute to a life, however long or short, (the life I mean). I soon discovered that I had had quite an interesting life, in fact, a life that was worth writing about. Memories I thank God for. It could have been lost to future generations. The interests I held were so varied that I have had to open twelve chapters. Now I don’t know where to stop. I’ve only got up to my migration to Australia and as I talk to my husband who shared that experience, more comes to mind. Incidents forgotten by one can be recalled by another. The temptation will be to go on writing for ever and become a bore to the rest of the family. I hope not. I will try to stop at some point of interest.

 

It was resting with a bad back and our small children were at school. I read a magazine and noted the advice – ‘if you have a little time to spare – sit down with a cuppa and write a letter to the grandchildren you are yet to have.’ So I set out with pencil and paper, ‘dear grandchild, you will only know me as Nan but I had a Nan too.’ There I went back to square one and started to describe my earliest memories, at least the ones that might interest a child.

That child is 23 today and married. He was touched when I read the first paragraph of my autobiography. More started to come to me as I wrote. It is strange how memories forgotten can be engendered from one thought.