The last time I saw Nanny — my maternal grandmother — was in April 2013. We were in the garden in front of her flat on Cherry Street in Warrawee. Jess and I were moving to London a few days later.
Like most cultural cringing Australians of her generation, Nanny was an anglophile. Though a Sydneysider, she had temporarily relocated to the UK in 1968 for my grandfather’s work - along with my mum and uncle - where they lived in south west London for four years. Back home, she spent the rest of her life (or at least the bit I witnessed) enthusing about the magical motherland: Harrods, Wimbledon, cold Christmas, the glamorous events she would attend as the wife of the representative of the Commercial Bank of Australia.
It was as though she was describing tasting an orange for the first time, having only ever known Fanta.
As you’d imagine, she was excited - if not a bit sad - that we were heading to London.
So I was surprised when, just before our final goodbye, that she turned to me and said: “just don’t stay too long.”
I laughed. “How come?”
“People will forget about you.”
I laughed again. No one would forget about me (I was the author of a bestselling zine about pubs for fuck’s sake). And if they did, who cares? Social connection was an infinite resource.
Nanny died before I visited Cherry Street again. But 11 years after that conversation, I still live in London.
I’m not anxious about being forgotten - but I understand what she was talking about. Living away is a compromise and - like pins and needles in your leg or opioids in your blood - the longer you wait to do something about it, the worse it’s going to hurt when you do it.
I stayed too long.
It’s my mantra now. I say it to myself each afternoon as I push my nine-month-old daughter around Walthamstow Wetlands.
If she’s awake, I say it to myself while I point out the landmarks on our horizon: Canary Wharf, Stratford, City, BT Tower, Hotspur Stadium, I stayed too long.
If she’s asleep, I’ll just think it while I dodge geese and teens.
I say it when I feel sad for the things I am missing.
I say it when I feel guilty for not missing anything.
I say it when I’m excited about the future.
I say it when I’m panicked about money.
And I say it when we’ve timed it perfectly and there’s time for a quick Guinness and bottle at the Ferry Boat and my metaphoric cup feels so full that the gratitude is brimming over and spilling on my shoes which, will ultimately destroy them, but in the meantime gives them a scuffed and murky patina that will be mine wherever I am.
