Things Fall Apart And Come Together

    The trouble with having a father die when you are sixteen months old is that after that you always know that death can happen, and you always fear that death can happen. You know that the world can rock on its axis, which can be handy when it does ('I told you so') but is tiresome in the long run.  My death fixation when I was a child settled on my maternal grandmother, who lived next door to us, in Twyford , Berkshire. Every time she toddled down to the village in her open-toed sandals, dachshund in tow, I would climb the yew tree that overhung the garden wall to await her return, hidden in the murky branches, ashamed of, but utterly unable to control, my fear. She always toddled back again, her feet slapping on the pavement and her busy voice full of Twyford gossip. When she dutifully took me to see Dr Doolittle , in 1967, because that was the kind of grandmother she was, she kept falling asleep. And I kept nudging her awake with my elbow, just to check that she was...