The trouble with writing about your retirement is that it could easily come out like one of those circular Christmas letters where people vie with each other to list their family achievements – little Emily’s amazing performance at as the youngest Olympic gymnast ever, young Peter’s prowess on the Jew’s Harp and forthcoming debut at the Royal Festival Hall and smug parents’ getaways at their little place on the French Riviera.

Nanny and Grampie with their daughter, Penny’s mother 1925
As far as my own retirement is concerned, I keep wondering when it‘s going to start.    When I visualise a proper old fashioned retirement, what comes to mind is my grandparents who,  after a lifetime of house moves, finally settled in a respectable terraced house one street back from the sea front at Westbrook in Kent.   Retirement for them was a predictable affair with their days kicked off promptly at 5 am by my grandfather who believed in early to bed and early to rise, not just for him but for anyone in his household.   Nanny, who might very well have welcomed a more leisurely start to the day, was woken by his thumping footsteps down the stairs, accompanied by loud whistling, followed shortly afterwards by his arrival in her bedroom with a cup of tea.   Just in case she wasn’t fully awake he would bang vigorously on the cup with a teaspoon and announced loudly that the day was nearly over.

Nanny’s day followed a predictable pattern of housework – my weekly run around with hoover and feather duster was not enough for her.    The house had to be cleaned daily with every ornament in the floral wallpapered rooms conscientiously dusted every day.    My grandfather’s full English breakfast had to be on the table by 7am and washing was done using an old fashioned copper once a week.    Shopping was a daily matter – done with the aid of a sturdy wicker basket on wheels which she towed along to the parade of individual shops with a careful shopping list.   The day’s meat – two lamb chops perhaps –  was bought from a butcher who knew every customer’s preferences and relished the demise of the wartime rationing which had made life so difficult for him.  Fruit and veg meant a queue and a chat with other regular customers at the greengrocers and often her list would call for visits to the fishmonger, the chemist  and maybe the haberdashers where she would replenish her supply of knitting wool for the jumpers and cardigans she regularly knitted for me and my brother.   (These had to be sewn up a second time by my mother as Nanny’s knitting was fine but the sewing up was sketchy to say the least).

Nanny with Penny’s mother 1942

Back home from the shopping, there was dinner to prepare – always meat and two veg, and often involving suet pastry.   A pudding and custard was considered essential and so it would often be well into the afternoon by the time she had cleared everything up and my grandfather had returned to the garden which was his pride and joy.    Then perhaps there would be time for a sit down, Woman’s Hour on the radio and perhaps a visit from two friends known to all the family as “the girls” even until they were well into their seventies.     There was a time when Nanny would use this precious free time to play her piano.   She had the enviable gift of being able to play by ear – and on visits I would watch her hands effortlessly skimming over the piano keys from which poured forth wonderful music.   Less enviable was her possession of a husband who, on a whim, sold her piano without her knowledge so that her gift was left to wither.   She did not complain.

Her afternoon free time over, it was time to get the tea – a proper tea with bread and butter, home-made jam and cake – perhaps a Victoria Sponge or a lightly fruited madeira – all very decorous and eaten with wedding present cake forks from bone china plates.

Evenings meant my grandfather’s choice of radio programmes and more knitting for Nanny, but only till 9pm naturally because after all there was an early start tomorrow wasn’t there?

Finally Nanny could climb into her high Queen Anne bed, but not until she had entirely stripped it to remove the electric blanket and remade it – it not being safe to sleep on one!

Nanny enjoying retirement at Westbrook with Penny’s mother in 1963

She was 75 when she died and I sometimes wonder what she would make of a modern retirement which often seems considerably busier than the working life I left behind ten years ago!   She did share my enjoyment of the knitting which keeps me occupied in spare moments, but more importantly she enjoyed the time spent with friends and family which are the most important part of my own retirement.    So perhaps we are not so different after all.