I think about you every day. The light swaying through the condensation on the porch windows, the sizzle of bacon under the ancient grill, your singing heady and soprano and off key. I would sit on that tiny stool and tap my toes along Peggy Lee and Louis Armstrong, scuffing them on the harsh fuzz of the brown carpet or the lino. You let me choose what shoes you would wear when we went out, and what musical to watch when we got home. You were so funny, and kind and generous. I miss your salami arms and your soft hands, the way you combed your hair, the way you flicked your wrists when you danced, the way you pointed your toes when you stretched your legs out on the footstool. I miss hearing your stories, I didn't mind the repeats - besides minor details would change to keep it fresh. I miss looking through your albums with you. I miss you absolutely trouncing me at scrabble. I miss Puget Luggs and Dolly Daydream. I miss your rubbish driving. I'm sorry I got all the tattoos, I know you hated them, thanks for not explicitly saying so. Thanks for keeping my postcards and hanging my terrible artwork. Thanks for teaching me to love the blues. I'm never going to stop thinking about you. I'm never going to stop hearing your voice and smelling that stupidly expensive soap you lined your drawers with - seriously Gran it's like £16 a bar, at least wash with it! I bought some more, so I could remember you more clearly. So I could be back in Heald Green with you, lying on the carpet while you did the crossword in your chair. You telling me I'm lollygagging, me in awe at your ability to understand cryptic crosswords and the neatness of the crease in your trousers. I love you.