In praise of grandmothers — or why people don’t linger any more

My grandmother’s name was Margaret. Or Peggy. Or very occasionally, to her siblings, Peggity Pops.

She was of the war generation, where keeping things was a necessity. String. Elastic bands. Stamps. Jam jars. But above all, food. She seemed to enjoy eating mould, anything mouldy really, and would jauntily chew away as if it were the most flavoursome food…

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