Just when you think that things can’t get much worse, they do. Having had the awful weekend that was with Dad being so ill and us not knowing if he would survive or not, Tuesday brought yet more bad news. My friend of over 20 years, June, more commonly known as the Blonde Tart was found dead in her home.
June ran a modelling agency in the 60s, was never seen without her face on and always looked as though she had just stepped out of the pages of Vogue. She was the only person I know who gardened in cream trousers. I knew her first when the Other Child was born and she became like another mother to me – always there with wise words when things were tough. As the most wonderful of knitters and stitchers, she encouraged me to make and do and had all of my first clumsy attempts at cushion making on show in her living room. She would stick a sequin on anything for a bit of bling and was the original posh totty. Despite the fact that she was in her 70s she was still in her 20s inside and loved a party, a laugh and a glass of ‘bubbles’.
Thankfully she fell asleep on the sofa and just didn’t wake up. A peaceful way to go. I last saw her 5 weeks ago when I did my great North run as I call it, and saw my Dad too. The irony of this has not been lost on me! I shall miss her immeasurably.