The Grandparent Diaries: Love, Palony, and Poor Fashion Choices

I hit the jackpot with grandparents. Three of them, to be exact, and they weren’t just family they were my sanctuary, my safety net, my very own fan club. But if we’re talking favourites (don’t tell the others), my maternal grandma Annie Elizabeth Boswick was my absolute ride-or-die. She was tiny garden gnome-sized, but don’t be fooled, her heart was big enough to house a small country. Which explains why clothes never seemed to fit her properly. Bless her.

Annie was born into a proper working-class family and was one of four siblings. I didn’t know them all, but there was Great Auntie Amy, and Shirley oh, Shirley. Shirley enjoyed a tipple… or five. Me and Gran would sometimes bump into her, and let’s just say, the combination of her perfume and whatever she’d had to drink would hit you like a brick wall. She staggered, she slurred, and honestly, she reminded me a bit too much of Grandad after a “quiet night in.”

My gran and I had a standing date: Dewsbury Market. Our mission? Get the best palony for Grandad. If the usual stall didn’t have it, she’d nudge me, wink, and say, “Don’t tell your grandad,” as she bought it from somewhere else. Honestly, it felt like we were running a covert deli operation.

I loved Dewsbury back then buzzing, busy, full of life

and I loved every second I spent with my grandparents. Friday to Sunday was sacred: Annie’s house, snacks, hugs, and being completely and unapologetically spoiled. Grandad, William Boswick aka Billy might not have been a model husband or father, but to me, he was the ultimate grandad.

He was an artist and a craftsman, and over several years, he built me the most epic dolls’ house ever. This wasn’t some plastic pop-up thing from a toy shop no, this was a miniature mansion complete with real carpets, tiny paintings on the walls (that he painted himself), and handcrafted furniture. Think “Grand Designs: Barbie Edition.” I played with it for hours like it was my full-time job.

Annie worked in a blanket factory, and her sewing machine lived in the front window her prized Singer. It doubled as a puzzle board, a card table, and occasionally a cat bed. But when she got on it, she became some kind of foot-powered wizard. She once made me a skirt in five minutes flat after I ruined mine. It was made of enormous multicoloured squares. I thought I looked like a catwalk queen. In reality, I looked like a patchwork quilt on legs. But I strutted around the street like I was starring in my own fashion show, and that’s all that matters.

Then there was the time I got bitten by the neighbour’s Afghan Hound. That dog was practically a horse. Grandad was furious, blue air, neighbours ducking for cover. I still have the scar and used to proudly tell people I’d been bitten by “an Afghanistan.” My brother dined out on that one for years.

When Grandad got ill, I wasn’t allowed to see him. I knew what that meant, even before they told me. And when he passed, nothing felt the same. The man who built magic with his hands was gone, and nobody could ever fill that space.

Annie, for the first time in her life, could finally breathe but she never stopped loving him. She stayed loyal to him right to the end, even if he did test her patience on the daily. When people say, “There’s no one like your grandma,” trust me they were talking about Annie.

She’d give you her last penny, jump on a bus without thinking if you needed her, and walk miles to help someone out. She was a force of nature wrapped in a pinny.

The last time I spoke to her, I promised I’d call before her operation. But I didn’t. Life got in the way, and I got caught up in things that now seem so unimportant. She never woke up from the anaesthetic. That call I never made became one of the biggest regrets of my life.

Those two weeks watching, waiting, hoping were torture. The grief, the guilt, the anger… it was all-consuming. A part of me died with her. The part that felt like home. The part that was still a child.

Looking back, I see now what a precious gift she was. I took her for granted. We always think we have more time, don’t we?

If there’s one lesson I learned from losing Annie, it’s this: don’t wait. Say the thing. Make the call. Wear the ridiculous skirt. And for heaven’s sake, never underestimate the healing power of palony and a grandma who loves you bigger than the sky.

Annie Elizabeth Boswick