1918

I got up late just as Dad returned home with Nanna Beardsall in tow, as we were having both the N's together for a kind of birthday celebration. One’s 74, the other’s 77.

Later, a big candle-lit dinner with wine, nostalgic tales, Nanna B. recounting childhood 1918 tragedies, father dying and a day later baby brother dead too, mother left with eleven children. . . . I was quiet as I listened, subdued almost. . . .

Then, while Mum, Dad and the N’s disappeared into the front room (Dad: “I’ll have to sit and suffer”), I played familiar records I've heard too often and sat and suffered my own boredom and stale negativity. Next door, the N’s whooped and cackled to tales of Uncle Jim.

Come tea time, Mum set out their cake, gave them chocolates and a bouquet each, Nanna P. bursting into joyful sobs, kisses, tears all round now. I took a couple of photos of them both, caught forever in that instant in time, holding their flowers. . . . .

I listened to the Stan Tracey Octet on Peter Clayton (superb).