Now isn't life a bit ironic. On the same day I wrote was about Oscar, the cat of death, my grandma died. Maybe Oscar's premonition is working also over the internet. Leaving this black humour aside my father's mum last week broke her hip-bone and was operated about two days later. Unfortunately there were some complications and she died all of a sudden last Wednesday at the age of 80 (was going to be 81 in a month). My middle brother lived with grandma for the last 16 years, since her husband died.

Granny was probably one of the strongest women I’ve known. Even in her old age she was still active and sharp. Like most old people she had her fair share of troubles in life. Her daughter died at the age of 16 (she was 2 years younger than my father) and after she had to take care of my grandpa, who suffered a stroke only 3 months after the death of their daughter. It’s no coincidence that she was very practical and pragmatic paying little attention to the vanities of life. Grandma was a seamstress so whenever I remember her the first image that comes to mind is her sitting at her old Swinger sewing machine, with a piece of thread sticking out of her mouth. Rest in peace grandma!

I flew back to the dot on Thursday with the first Ryanair flight to attend the funeral on Friday. Thankfully the logistics weren't problematic and everything worked out well, apart from the price of the ticket, but I definitely did the right thing to go home. On Thursday we went to clean the grave because it was full (we don't cremate the dead here). The grave cleaning consisted in sifting the remaining bones from the rotten coffin wood and placing them in a zinc box. This was a rather macabre lesson in decomposition, anatomy and cockroaches living with the dead. Not for the faint hearted.