Nearly 20 years ago, at the age of 60, I became a grandmother. I didn’t think I would again experience the infatuation I felt for my own son when he was born, but I fell in love with my grandson at once. My adoration was embarrassingly all-consuming, and indeed if anyone asks me about my grandsons even now – they’re 20 and 17 – my face breaks into a broad smile.
I didn’t want to be called “Gaga” (too close to the truth) or, as some reluctant oldies apparently want, “Glammy” (too far from the truth). I’m simply “Grannie”.
