Column: Missing diamond gift from gem of a person




If my grandmother were alive today, she would be 125, and she would still, no doubt, be walking around in her 6-inch-high heels, the ones she asked to be buried in — and she’d have a Marlboro in her fingers.

She demanded to be called Mum Mum because the term “grandma” suggested an older woman. That wasn’t going to work.

She smoked two packs a day, had a few shots of Johnnie Walker Black before noon and then would ask her doctor if she could put cream in her coffee, “or would that be too much cholesterol for a woman of my age?” Not that she ever told anyone her age, but my previous estimate is in the ballpark.

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