My dad had no siblings who survived past infancy. His cousins became his brothers and sisters, when he married and had his own family, they became much loved aunts and uncles. Of all of them, Sandra was the heart. She always knew what the right thing to say and she was the one person a shy twelve year old could confide in. She was my mentor, my second mother, my friend.

When my dad died, she was already ill herself and yet not once did she allow that to stand in the way of being there for me, my sister and my mother.

When, a few years later, my mum died, Sandra was once again there. She was a rock. A few months after my mum's death I went through her belongings and found this, written in Sandra's writing, hidden away at the back of her change purse. It's by Joyce Grenfell. My mum had kept this because it touched her, I think Sandra would have loved to know that.

If I should die before the rest of you
Break not a flower nor inscribe a stone
Nor, when I'm gone, speak in a Sunday voice,
But be the usual selves that I have known.
Weep if you must
Parting is hell.
But life goes on.
So sing as well.