And so, the end is nigh...

You'll never guess. Well, you probably will, but I'm going to tell you anyway.

Boy #2.

Had.

A.

Poo.

IN THE POTTY!!!!!!

My work here is done. So long!

OK, you didn't think you were going to get off that easily, did you?

I know, I know, you want all the details, but in a fit of motherly reticence I'm not going to share with you his assertion that no, he was not having a poo (despite the all-too evident smell and effort that convinced me otherwise), or the family rejoicing that followed the discovery of the wonderful gift he had made us in what has in many ways been a shxt week (nice of him to stick to the theme, don't you think?), in case in years to come he should be embarrassed by such revelations.

Let's just say that he was probably in the right place at the right time, and I'm not holding my breath (though perhaps given this morning's performance I should be) that we will see a repeat tomorrow...

And in non-potty news...

It's coming up to my grandmother's 95th birthday.

95 years! My grandmother is an amazing woman. She still lives on her own in a bungalow on the south coast of England, still does all her own cooking, shopping, and cleaning, travels by bus, and has a bit of a thing for a nice sweater from the Scottish Woollen Mill. She's happy to spend an entire morning at the garden centre, planning next year's displays of hardy annuals (she gives very good pansy and begonia), and remarking on how cheap the set roast lunch is in the cafe there.

When she visits my parents in Somerset she changes her outfit around 3 times a day; it doesn't do to let the side down just because you are rurally impaired, she believes. She visits the hairdressers every week for a 'wash and set', and despairs of my mother, who in most people's eyes is the epitome of style and elegance, because she wears trousers occasionally and puts highlights in her hair. At one coffee morning when Mum was visiting her, Nana commented to a mutual friend "Don't mind G - she lives in the country, you know." This was because my mother was wearing a trouser suit. And there was also the notable time when, whilst mum was growing up, Nana discovered that she wore her vest over rather than under her bra, and called her a trollope, but I think that 50 years later they've both put that behind them now.

She's a remarkable woman. She's lived through 2 world wars, lost a brother to a tragic accident as child, worked 'in business' (as she charmingly calls it, rather like a Russian Mafia-Wife), borne 2 children, built up a successful caravan park group with her husband, lost that much-loved husband to leukemia only a few months after he retired, with one exception lost her 4 siblings, seen 6 grandchildren and 11 great-grandchildren (so far) arrive, and still doesn't touch a drop of alcohol.

Every Christmas she visits my parents and good-humouredly puts up with the crowds, the noise, and not being able to hear us all speaking at once through her hearing aid, though when there's a programme she wants to watch on television it is advisable to find ear-plugs. She walks to the end of the village and back for her daily constitutional, stoically ignoring the mud of the 'working countryside', and when the weather is bad she simply walks around my parent's house instead, counting her steps until she feels she has reached a respectable total.

She is a redoubtable lady, who takes no messing about, and puts her longevity down to good genes and a slug of olive oil in a sherry glass every day.

I'm pulling together a photograph album for her birthday, which is why I have the picture below to hand. In my mind it's a piece of history. The fact that a person in such a dated and clearly Edwardian photo is still here with us today is astounding to me.

My wonderful Nana is the little girl on the left.