When Nana and Grandad visit, a familiar rhythm descends. They coo over the size of their grandkids and render them delirious with biscuits you can only buy in Ireland. When the kids head off to school and nursery respectively, we work while they potter around downstairs, and reconvene for long, chatty lunches of the traditional variety: ham, salads, sliced beetroot, fresh bread and hard-boiled eggs, which we eat while they list everyone from home who’s died since we last saw them.
We like to think we keep a clean and tidy home, but a visit from Marian and Sean quickly disabuses of this notion. There are only so many times you can see someone cleaning your taps before you realise you might be doing it more frequently yourself. ‘Do you know who else died?’ Marian will say, while scrubbing the underside of a pan I’ve never seen before in my life, ‘Dympna, from the hairdressers – a terrible fall.’
