2012 Movella Review - Cake Nanny

Through what my family and I have experiences this year has put a bit of a grey cloud abover our hanging heads, so, however much it may upset me to type out this review of my unfortunate events, I will do it with my head held high.
On this review I have decided to focus on the death of my Great Nan.


1. 1. Death

   I think, that we all know that death and loss can be a very upsetting subject. Some deaths bring tears to out eyes, some will bring tsunamis to our eyes, and others none at all, but the one I'm about to tell you about brought the worlds greatest wave flowing out of me. I write this, in memory of my Great Nan. Cake Nanny.

   Why is she called Cake Nanny? You ask. Well when I was younger and when she could get a around and meander the streets easily enought, she always used to bring little home made cupcakes to our house, somtimes along with a black sack or box stuffed with furry bears or hand me down toys. Her bright red ear muffs were somthing she always sported, no matter what season, and onward into the years she was about to be diagnosed with Dementure, she had put lipstick on her ear lobes in order to make them look 'not so pale'. She was loved dearly by all of her family and friends, however when she was getting older, things started to change.

   No cupcakes were there to be seen, no toys and deffietly not a trace of her herself. Living in a flat by herself was somthing she was used to and fond of, however one day she started to call "Fire, fire!" out of her window. And that's when she was diagnosed with Dementure. There was no fire. She was going crazy...

Moving from carehome to carehome unsettled her, and then, one day my mum said to me, while I was writing in my room, "Sophie, I have been told, that Cake Nanny could...die any day now," Of course, I sobbed and cried and wailed, and as I hugged my mum tight, I could feel her shaking and my left shoulder dampeing from her silent tears.

Morning arose the next day, and all the morning was fine, even lunch time, however the early afternoon struck. Again, I was in my room writing and mum, once again, came in. "She's died...". I was frozen in grief.

   About a week later the funeral had taken place. I had written a poem to say, a fairly long one. I was confident enough I thought, even though I usually am shy, I could read my poem infront of family. The vicar called me on, as well as my 22 year old cousin Lily, who had also written a poem. I was first.

   Giving a weak smile to my mum, whos red cheeks were sodden in tears, I began "Now that dear old Cake Nanny has gone, we will all wish her back for ever so long..." I could feel the tears coming, my head pounding my hand shaking. No, don't do this! It was too late.

   I was sobbing my heart out, and Lily turned me to face her, and hgged me while she read out my poem for me, though her voice was a little shakey.

   I broke the ice, as everyone else started sobbing too. I cried a little, every time I saw the coffin that stood actionlessly infront of us. Embedded with flowers and little notes, it looked a beauty. As butterflies were her 'thing' we had gotten a florest to make a butterfly out of flowers, and a grand job she did too.

   Later, back at the Grand we had scones and cream and smooth jam, little sandwiches filled with posh fillings, and even the crusts were cut off. It was a lovely little place.

                                    'Nanny will be here, depending on the weather.'

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