Dear Angela...

I received a letter today from my 70 year old Auntie Ivy.

I haven't seen her for thirty years and to hold her perfectly typed letter in my hands was a tender moment for me. Like I said before in a previous post I always liked Ivy, she was and I'm glad to say still is, a feisty sharp woman. I can tell by the short sharp sentences which are laden with wit and wisdom. Her body she said was quite old but in her head she was still 'fortyish'.
I liked that.

She enthused about the old days when me mum and dad used to visit her large house in Clapham Junction.
She ran a fraught house packed to the ceiling with kids and tropical fish. One of her husbands wore a bow tie and ate only eggs and bacon and rice pudding. They had the kind of home which made you want to run up and down the stairs barefooted, everything was chaotic and I never wanted to leave.

She loved leopard print cushions, several Martinis, several foreign holidays, leather pouffes, fur coats, and had a pine breakfast bar before pine breakfast bars were fashionable. She also hung 'The Green Lady' over the huge fireplace.
She laughed a great deal and also cried a great deal, she went through two or three husbands and several houses. But whatever the emotional weather she always looked glamorous.

She was a strict mother who angered her step-children to such a degree that one day after school, they slashed all her clothes with the kitchen scissors and emptied talcum powder over the black satin sheets.
They were severely chastised.

This letter from Ivy came about as a direct result of the arrival at mum and dad's door of a man called David who purported to be dad's nephew. I'm very pleased he did arrive though, because, as a result, I've re-discovered my slightly scary Auntie.

And she writes well does Ivy, and I will take a great deal of pleasure in corresponding with her.
I hope to meet her one day, but I won't press it.
I daren't.