Billie Holliday is playing, I'm in my 'writing' pyjama pants and old 'good luck' slippers. There isn't any wine left in the fridge. And I'm missing my Nana. Because she would get this yawning, oddly hollow feeling that comes with the blank page. Even if she wasn't a writer, she was definitely a dreamer. And she was fabulous. Nana was from a fine old family in Nova Scotia, the kind that had a name for their house (it was like 'Acadia, something'). They were the main family in the town, with a dairy farm, a porch swing and vast, sweeping secrets. Nana was a redhead from way back, so no one really knew what her original colour was. But she was definitely a redhead at heart. She was feisty. She was passionate. And I think now that she was much disappointed in life. My poor, dear, curmudgeonly old Grandpa was terrified of her most of the time, terrified because I think he knew he couldn't make her happy. As with most fabulous, over-the-top women, no one ever really could. She was hungry for the world, hungry to make an imprint, wear the finest clothes, sleep in the softest bed. Have the best friends (which she managed to accomplish - I've never met another woman with such a loyal following) and be loved the most. Yes, I think in the end that was what she wanted. To be loved the absolute best. And red, knee-high boots. With eight kids, 20 some-odd grandchildren and eight great-grandchildren, I wonder if she felt she won? At least I know she had the boots.