Sometimes it was easy to feel somewhat outside of the closeness of our family's lives in Hampshire. We lived further away and we were, let's face it, a bit weirder than the rest of the clan. But one thing that was no different was how much we loved our Grandma, and how much we felt loved by her in return. We may have had less time, but the times that we did have, in the warmth of our grandparents home, and in the security of their care, were the best times in a child's life. Grandma was synonymous with school holidays, our only holidays most years; of summer time; of easter; and she was not just synonymous with Christmas. - she was Christmas. At least for all of us lucky enough to have grown up with the tradition of boxing day, something as true for my father as it was for me, and for my children, for whom it was as important as Christmas day itself. And it wasn't the delicious food - including the wonderful and, I have since learnt, otherwise unheard of custom of mashed potato and salad, or the presents, or crackers, or the tree or treats. It was the silver haired woman who welcomed us at the door, it was the decorations Grandad made from old sweet wrappers, it was the arguments over who got to hold the crosswords we never quite managed to complete, and the balled up paper being strategically thrown across the room. And then again, at the end, it was Grandma, our beautiful Grandma, insisting we take home sandwiches for the journey and picking up her trusty torch and always coming out to the car to see us off. It was that love, and protection, and a sweetness that endured every hardship and sucked up every pain and somehow managed always to change it into a smile as she told us to drive carefully and let her know we got home safe. It is the smile of that farewell I will remember tomorrow as we say goodbye, and it is that smile i will remember for the rest of my life. Drive carefully dearest Grandma. Get home safe.