You're fighting with lost confidence

When I was seven, my gran had been ill for months.

I can't remember clearly, but she had been in my mum and dad's bed for what seemed like ages. I definitely don't remember that my Nant was staying in the house too, cause Gran needed 24 hour nursing.

When you are seven, you don't ask questions, you don't enquire as to the situation.

On Christmas Eve, my sister and I were plonked in front of the TV, and told to watch West Side Story. I remember sitting in the chair nearest the TV, and watching this film, and hearing the songs, but also being aware of comings and goings in the hall outside the living room.

When you are seven, you accept the situation, and just get on with it.

We went to bed, left our notes for Santa with our stockings, added a request for a koala, said our prayers, and went to bed. In the morning we awoke to full stockings, and a Koala.

We went through to the living room, where mum and dad were sleeping as Gran was in their room. Dad told us they had something to tell us. Gran had died the night before. We cried. we hugged. We cried some more.

When you are seven, death is a strange phenomenon. Gran was no more. The house was full of people coming and going, and full of sympathy, and patting you on the head. We were dispatched to the family upstairs, and then we were dispatched the Nanna across the road and watched slides of her holidays.

Then we came home, and went to bed.

We changed our prayers that night. Gran was in heaven now, so we altered her location.

And I lay in bed and wondered how I would still get Twinkle on a Tuesday without Gran to fetch it for me?

Tonight, the cats are fighting about who gets the TV box.