Today marks 113 years since my grandma was born. I never met her, she died in 1962 when she was 49. She was called Iris because they were flowering when she was born and her Dad was a gardener, so I guess he noticed.

When we lived in Fulham Grandad would come every Saturday morning and in May he would bring irises for her birthday. As he got older and Mum went to him on Saturday mornings, he would give her money for flowers in May.

Now I visit Mum on Saturday mornings and yesterday I bought her irises.

We also had a port and lemon, because apparently she was fond of those too!

I’d never had a port and lemon before I quite like it! (There is a revival of old fashioned names, I’m bringing back old fashioned drinks!)

We had irises for Grandad’s funeral, she’s the reason I grow them on the plot.

I know she was fun, I know her marriage wasn’t happy, I know my mum and uncle suffered because she died when they were teenagers and money got very tight, I know she and my great Aunt Ellen got about a bit (ok a lot).

She’s the reason I love haslet and knew what mardy meant way before the Artic Monkeys song meant Londoners were aware of the world. I think she’s probably the reason that my relationship with my mum is as it is.

That’s quite a lot for a woman I never met, who’s been dead for over 60 years.

I hope the nephews have better memories of their grandma, I know they’ll know her favourite drink and I hope that they’ll buy irises for grandma (theirs or mine) too.