"I have a glob!" my chic Parisian Great Aunty Joyce declares. "Would you like to see it?"
I must confess I'm not at all keen to see it. She's ninety years old and I have a fairly weak stomach. But, there is no refusing Aunty Joyce. She leads me into her bedroom and I brace myself.
"I have met zis wonderful man," she confides. "And he make me zis marvellous glob. You must see, you must see."
My Aunty Joyce is what's known as 'a character'. She resides in a bohemian apartment on the Seine. She paints, she writes, she creates! Her home is a treasure trove of flamboyance and kitch. A leopard printed, Japanese-laquered, decoupage-encrusted jewel of a place. Her bedroom is no exception and my eyes are pulled every which way at the marvelosity of everything.
"Look, look." She pats the chair and I squeeze in beside her. We sit at her dressing table, in front of a laptop and she shows me her glob.
"It is good, no?" she smiles. "I am fantastic, yes?"
"Yes, Aunty Joyce. You are fantastic." I kiss her rouged cheek and she hugs me.
She is fantastic. She's ninety years old, she looks incredible, her life has been tough and yet she has so much vibrancy and enthusiasm. She also writes a glob.
If she can write a glob, I reckon I can give it a go.
