My mother would have been 100. I remember her as a friendly always smiling presence in my early life and couldn't envisage what she would have been like as a so called "old person."
It's hard now to think that she would have been born just three years after the end of the First World War and certainly would have been old enough to fully remember the Second World War. She would have been 18 at the outbreak of war and 24 when it ended.
I am already almost eight years older than my mother when she died and one of my biggest regrets is that she didn't live long enough to see her grandchildren. Our first son was born three months after she died.
My mother shared a birthday with the Duke of Edinburgh who also would have been 100 yesterday.
Over the years, I have written a lot about my father but very little about my mother. It might be that remembering her is a little painful due to her dying at such an early age.
I do remember my early years when she ran a greengrocers' shop in Hellesdon just outside Norwich. I remember every Friday when my father brought his wages home she would divide the money into various tins - one for food, one for electricity etc.
I remember the various deliveries to the shop, the way people would often come in for a chat rather than to buy things. She loved a chat. I remember the day somebody stole her purse from behind the counter and she ended in tears.
I remember playing the piano whilst there were people in the shop and of the piece of board put up to cut the shop off from our hall - not to stop me from getting through but to stop our pet poodle. I never really got on with this poodle. It was yappy and if anyone went near my mum it snarled and even tried to bite. When it had to have its teeth out it could still give you a damn good suck.
I remember being allowed to go into the shop in the evening and take sweets out of the various jars and I remember her wonderful potato fritters that she would make late at night and probably shouldn't have done. These creations were thick cut slices of potato, coated in batter and fried. Wonderful with salt and vinegar.
I remember that when we sold the shop and moved half a mile away, she got a job as a cleaner at the school I went to up to the age of 11. Above all I remember her smile, her kindness, her willingness to help anyone, her love of a good chat and the quiet unassuming way she supported me - I sincerely hope that I have inherited some of her humanity and love of others. Perhaps her only fault was that, at times, she was too trusting of some people who let her down.
I'm not the kind of person that remembers when she was born (apart from this year of course) or when she died. I prefer to remember the person and not dates. One of my prized possessions is a photograph in my study that looks as if it was taken on her wedding day, although I've never actually had that confirmed. Last night before I went to bed I gave it a clean - that's the least I could do for her and her memory.
Talking about age. On Wednesday we visited Cromer and were walking along the prom when we had to negotiate our way past about six young men, none of whom seemed to be aware of anyone else being around nor of a need to move aside to let others coming in the opposite direction pass.
I overheard the following snatch of conversation from one of them.
"Why don't we get some sandwiches and sit on the beach and eat them like old people do?"
Two points:
1/ Us old people were young once and
2/ One day my son you will be old. Many others have found this out to be true.