WHEN I was a little girl I thought my nanna was Elizabeth Taylor.
Obsessed with the movies and Hollywood stars, I would watch her carefully apply her trademark lip liner and lipstick and dust her face with the finest powder, all the while looking up at her and wondering which big film she was going to be in next.
Sometimes she would pat my nose with her powder puff and let me squirt some ‘perthume’ on myself.
Bearing in mind I was about six at the time and thought ABBA lived next door and Steve McQueen was my father, I truly believed there was no one more glamourous than my nan.
And I really did think she was a star.
So when the Academy Awards rolled around this week I watched avidly and scrutinised the dresses, the hair and the makeup adorning the latest crop of movie stars, wondering what my nanna would have made of it all.
As quick as Lucille Ball with a cutting quip, she would have annihilated Angelina Jolie’s right leg with an icy glare but given Meryl Streep the dignified nod of approval.
George Clooney – of course – would have passed muster, but Brad Pitt would have been summarily dismissed for his unkempt locks.
My nanna loved the razzle dazzle of Hollywood; the bright lights, the big city – all a world away from the small towns she grew up in.
I still have her glossy books full of 8x10s of her favourite stars.
There’s Cary Grant, Clark Gable, Betty Grable and Rita Hayworth.
There’s Elizabeth Taylor.
And there’s my nan.
Up there sipping a shandy with all her favourites in heaven – or wherever it is fabulous movie stars go when the final curtain falls.
