From Naomi Grandma was a strong presence in my childhood. I can remember as far back as her big house in Sheffield, though it’s been so long that I couldn’t tell you much about it. I vaguely remember the foxes that visited now and again, similar to how we’d only see her now and again. The clearer memories really begin when she moved closer to us. My sister and I would come round after school since we were a bit young to go home when our parents worked late. There were Breakaway biscuits and Beano comics and her warm and comforting demeanour. I remember the Sunday dinners from time to time, the pyrex glassware she used from it. Her cooking was always delicious and made with care and attention, a quality I hope that someday I can refine in myself. I still have some of her crockery all the way up in Scotland with me, including some of the pyrex. I don’t get to use it a lot, but knowing that it’s there and seeing it in my cupboards is a peculiar comfort, a connection point to my younger days and her gentle care even when we were miles apart and more recently when she passed on.