• Vol. 04
  • Chapter 01
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Granny Myrdall was a hoarder; saved all kinds of stuff like you wouldn't believe. They make programmes about this kind of 'problem'. She didn't find it a problem because she was living her life the way she wanted. My parents found it a problem as they knew she could hardly reach her front door or the 'phone, hemmed in as she was by cardboard boxes, bin bags, and plastic what-nots.
        Father, and my aunt occasionally (very hesitantly)offered her a chance to live with either of them.
        'I'm not moving from here 'til they make a forced entry
and carry me out!' she stated defiantly. Mother muttered that the manpower they would need would be coffin bearers and health inspectors. My family were not the greatest of supporters and were fed-up railing against her state of living.
        However, I loved her. She appealed to my rebellious nature, which decided me to sneak round with groceries and pass them through her creaking kitchen window.
        Her thanks croaked out, 'You're a good lad. I'll remember you'.
        One sad day the Myrdall mutterings ceased for ever and as predicted, the hearse arrived, followed by the council health team. As promised, she left her small fortune to me and I bought a small gallery with living quarters attached. I was eager to try out some of the techniques which I had learned in art college. I kept a few of Gran's photos and a mysterious bag full of gloves. Those assorted pairs of gloves were my first inspiration.         I painted a backdrop of those gloves and they were so different to any backdrop that I had seen. I kept back a pair for myself and wore them as I collected the donations for the charity fund-raising. The one odd glove was a ladies silver-grey fine one. This I placed on my onyx table as a reminder of Gran, who must have lost the other. Maybe she dropped it on her way home from a long-ago dance...