When I first met my Nana, I would like to think that the thought going through her head was something like "Oh I hope this one has red hair." She was a very proper English lady straight out of the Lake District of northern England, which, though I have not been to every corner of the British Isles, I am sure is one of the most beautiful places in that country. In her spare time, I can always remember her doing her crosswords, watching the news, knitting and she was forever reading some new book. And while I rarely saw her when she was in action, she was also an excellent painter. Her artistic streak ran deep; I imagine that she is the source of my father's artistically unreadable handwriting and likely my own. She was a funny lady and one could tell that her family was her favourite source of good humour and great conversations.
In December, when nearly the whole family was together, Nana had fallen very ill. She was in the sort of state that a woman of her age and condition cannot easily come back from. Without it needing to be said, I think we all suspected the end was near and yet she still managed to make us smile through the sadness. She was, to put it plainly, quite out of it, but she still managed to accuse her son (my father) of looking like a piece of window drapery in that shirt he was wearing.
During the night of Friday, January 26th, Hazel Evans' heart stopped beating in her sleep. She died in peace, she was 86 years old. In her memory, I had a drink of Wiser's, one of her favourites and I shall forever remember how she could always make us smile. You will be missed, Nana.