The One About Aunty Moya

Where to start.

Aunty Moya was a fixture of our lives since I was in the cradle. Our housekeeper. Our babysitter. My early life was Aunty Moya because mum was busy. She lived in a house in the woods. Hansel and Gretel gingerbread stuff, but in a good way, no Baba Yaga. Her husband was called Basil and he loved to ‘take a peck’ of the air at night. I still do the same. My sister and I were the flower girls for her daughter’s wedding (Jacky and Mick).

Aunty Moya came and went as she liked. Our house was her house. Her black iron bicycle was called Bess. It weighed a ton, for the love of God. When I’m back in Lincolnshire, WH and I walk her road home. Through the woods.

Mum takes Moya for lunch now. Whatever she fancies. For her 80th birthday, we chipped in and bought her a gold watch. My dear Aunty Moya, thanks for ironing my lace knickers with extreme aggression when I managed to get a boyfriend, and thanks for being my friend.