The message that popped up on my iPad this morning was like a punch in the stomach. It was a reminder from Facebook that it was my best friend’s birthday, urging me to send her well wishes. I burst into tears.
There would be no more birthdays. I went to her funeral last week and I had never felt so lost, alone and heartbroken.
Yes, I have been through times of grief before. My grandparents died when I was 20 and my parents when I was 50. Of course I mourned them and missed them, but the pain I feel now is overwhelming, like nothing I have ever felt before in my life.
You prepare yourself to lose the older generation of loved ones, it’s the expected order of things, but nothing prepares you for losing a contemporary who has been so close for so long.
She knows all your secrets like you know hers. She is always there to share with you the ups and downs of life and make you laugh in those moments when you can’t find reasons to laugh.
Jenni with her best friend Griselda, left, in 2019, who recently passed away
His death is a stark reminder that none of us are as immortal as we like to think.
It wasn’t exactly a surprise when Griselda’s son and husband called me early one morning in late August to tell me she had died around 5 a.m.
I knew she had been very ill for some time, but in a humorous email she sent me a few months earlier, she had promised me that she would not die. She knew perfectly well how much she meant to me and she did not think I could live without her.
Griselda had had breast cancer ten years earlier, so we shared that horrible experience as we had shared everything throughout our adult lives. I had had it ten years earlier and so far I have been lucky. I always worried that it might metastasize. I still do.
My friend was not so lucky. The cancer spread everywhere and attacked her liver and lungs. She suffered terribly, despite the wonderful and attentive care she received to get rid of it. But no chemotherapy could kill it.
Palliative care and Macmillan nurses eased the pain and she never lost her sense of humour.
Our last communication was a couple of weeks before she died. She had posted a photo on Facebook of a sale of her unwanted items that had taken place in front of her house. I asked her how on earth she managed to do it when she was so sick.
“I run the operations from my bed,” she said. That was how she was: always busy, full of energy, determined to participate in whatever life had to offer.
When we met at BBC Radio Bristol in 1973, she was far more senior to me. I had joined as a lowly editorial staff writer, while she was a professional journalist who had previously worked for several local radio stations.
One night, over drinks at the BBC Club, she said she thought I might have the qualities to be a presenter.
She was my mentor, only a couple of years older than me, and soon became my best friend. I never forgot her reporting lessons and they stood me in good stead for the rest of my broadcasting career.
Our friendship blossomed and we shared our agonies when we were in our 20s and our boyfriends came and went. She met the man who would become the father of her children, just like I did.
Our jobs took us to different parts of the country, but we met whenever we could.
I did a bit of television in Southampton; she did it in East Anglia. I went to her wedding and a friend at the funeral reminded me that I had been instrumental in making sure her make-up was perfect.
She and her husband moved to South London and she insisted it was time for me to do the same.
Griselda wasn’t afraid of the metropolis, but I was terrified of it. I was a working-class girl from the north; how could I fit in there?
I spent many weekends with her going to parties, getting to know the city and waking up in her apartment in the morning to dance around the living room to Mr Blue Sky by Electric Light Orchestra.
Even the greyest day had sunshine and blue skies for her. Music was played at her funeral. She would have loved it.
We had had our first babies, one son each, a couple of months apart.
It was concern for the education of our children (two boys for me, one boy and one girl for her) that convinced us to move close to schools we thought would benefit them.
We moved to the Peak District and they to Kent, but for what seems like years and years we stayed at each other’s houses as often as we could. The children became friends and all was right with the world.
In the 50 years of our deep and loving friendship, we only had two fights. The first was when we were in our twenties and went shopping at Selfridges. At the time, I was earning a better salary and I infuriated her by drooling over expensive jewellery that she could never have bought.
She said I was selfish and we didn’t talk for a week. (She was right.)
The second time was the big Stilton incident at a party at her mother’s house. I cut a slice for myself. She was furious. Didn’t she know that a Stilton is meant to be eaten with a spoon, not in slices? I didn’t know that, but, as always, I learned from her. She knew everything.
It seemed like everyone in the village had been to the crematorium in the past week. She had always been involved in campaigns such as keeping the local stream clean and in good condition and making sure that a small public garden was looked after.
She was universally loved and admired.
For me, the sight of my beloved best friend in a wicker coffin was unbearable. She was the light of my life, full of words and enthusiasm, and she was gone. I had never felt so empty.
I know who I support on Strictly
Comedian Chris McCausland with fellow Strictly contestant Dianne Buswell
I wasn’t sure I would watch Strictly, given all the scandal surrounding the show. But of course I did and can now look forward to binge-watching the series on Saturday nights until Christmas.
I hope blind comedian Chris McCausland is wrong in his prediction that he will be the first out.
When introduced to fellow contestant Dr Punam Krishan, he said: “None of us can believe we’ve managed to get in the same room as a GP.” Whether he’s a good dancer or not, he’s too funny to miss.
I have not lived there for some time, but I still have a deep affection for my home town, Barnsley. I am proud that it is going to be a pioneer in the fight against unemployment. A report by the Pathways to Work Commission found that most people who are out of work in the town would try to get help and support.
It’s been 40 years since the mines that once guaranteed a decent wage to men like my grandfather closed. The loss of the industry left many people powerless. The people of Barnsley are not lazy. They just need a push.
Huw should be jailed for his crimes
Huw Edwards leaves Westminster Magistrates’ Court after receiving a six-month suspended sentence
I never met Huw Edwards, although we were both key presenters at the BBC, but it sickens me what he has done.
I can’t believe they didn’t send him to prison.
The poor children she saw in the images suffered horrific abuse. That wouldn’t happen if men like Edwards didn’t create a market for such perversion.
He should be imprisoned to show others like him that crime is serious and must be punished.
A model walks the runway at the Karoline Vitto show during London Fashion Week.
At London Fashion Week, expect to see models who look like they’ve never had a real meal. So three cheers for designer Karoline Vitto, whose show didn’t feature a model under her arm. a size 14.
(tags to translate)dailymail
