Staying at my grandmother's, where I could have been back in Victorian times. Her house smelt of lavender and beeswax, had a big old coal-fire range and a cold water tap in the scullery. A parlour, saved for best, with a chaise longue, stuffed birds under a glass dome, oil paintings of unknown (to me) relatives and the ubiquitous print of When Did You Last See Your Father? I'd sleep in one of her long flannelette nighties, buttoned up to the neck, sinking right down into the middle of a huge feather bed, with a kelly lamp to read by and a gazunder for emergencies! My grandmother was born in 1880, and would tell me tales of travelling with her sister by steam train to stay with their friends in a country house near York for the weekend, being admitted by the butler and having their clothes laid out by a maid. They were once met at the station afterwards by their father, who had to tell them that their baby sister had died suddenly while they were away. I'd love to know more about the family, and how it came about that two coalminers' daughters were moving in such elevated circles.