This week, my sister and I went to visit our grandma for her 100th birthday, which is a sentence that already feels like a lie.
People can’t be 100. Buildings, trees, cheeses, maybe. But not your grandma. Especially one who still answers the phone briskly, has all her marbles, and strong opinions about the benefits of eating raw ginger.
My sister and I dressed up. She wore a fabulous maxi dress and I opted for a suit. It’s not every day your grandma turns 100, so pulling out all the sartorial bells and whistles felt right.
‘Hi Grandma!’ we bumbled through the door of the house she’s lived in for the better part of eight decades, arms full of presents and balloons broadcasting 100 in gold and silver.
‘Sarah! Jamie! Hello, dears! Don’t worry about shoes. Everyone’s been in and out. Just come in.’
Mud on Grandma’s carpet. We would never. We removed our shoes and went in for hugs, kisses, and congratulations.
Every flat surface was buried under a rave of cards. Stars, flowers, glitter, cartoon centenarians grinning cheerfully. Family and friends had sent their well-wishes, along with most of the village.
‘Even the lady from the post office has been in,’ Grandma said. ‘She’s been telling everyone, “Did you know someone in the village is 100?”’
She grinned at the idea of living long enough to become a local attraction.
‘What does it feel like,’ I asked, ‘being 100?’
‘Oh…’ She paused. ‘Like a dream, my dear. I can’t quite believe it. One hundred birthdays is a lot. I would never have thought I’d get to so many. It’s like I blinked, and now I’m sitting here with the both of you.’
Born in 1925, Grandma grew up in the aftermath of one world war and came of age in the shadow of another. School ended at fourteen for most. Play was unsupervised. Toys were whatever you could make or imagine: sticks, skipping ropes, dolls, spoons. You climbed trees, built dens, and played whatever dangerous new game the kid down the road had invented.
Parenting, if such a thing existed, favoured firm warnings or a few smacks with a slipper. Discipline was a broad church, applied whether you fell out of a tree, stole sweeties, or got chased by the neighbour’s goat.
She remembers the terror of polio and tuberculosis, the birth of the NHS, the splitting of the atom and, many decades later, the invention of suitcases with wheels.
On the subject of modern miracles, central heating, electricity, and indoor plumbing featured highly. In one lifetime, we’ve gone from freezing off our wobbly bits during a midnight trip to the outhouse to plush toilets with heated seats, bidets, and optional soundscapes to encourage healthy bowel movements.
‘I was very good,’ she said. ‘I didn’t open a single card early. I stayed up until midnight, had a spoonful of honey, and then opened the one from Buckingham Palace first.’
On the mantelpiece sat a card featuring King Charles and Queen Camilla. Charles wore a kilt and sporran. Camilla had opted for a big hat.
‘I thought it was funny they put themselves on the front,’ Grandma said. ‘It’s my birthday and they’ve made it all about them. Do you think the signatures are handwritten?’
We are, as a family, not especially fond of Charlie and his lady. Queen Elizabeth II was a tough act to follow, and all the Diana drama doesn’t help. Plus, Elizabeth was born in 1926, so Grandma and the Queen have always felt like contemporaries.
Which is why my sister had a bright idea: let’s send Grandma a letter from the late Queen.
Opening the envelope, I sat down beside Grandma and read the second letter from Buckingham Palace, putting on my best impression:
My Dearest Gwendoline,
It has come to my attention, from one of the most reliable of corgis, that you're celebrating your 100th birthday. Allow me to extend my warmest royal congratulations on reaching such a splendid age.
You and I were only born a year apart, so we are women of an especially fine vintage. We both remember ration books, proper tea, and a time before central heating and modern plumbing.
I trust you will be celebrating with all the pomp and ceremony befitting your centenary and your family will be treating you like royalty. If not, tell them you have my permission to make use of the Tower of London – you know, if need be.
Do continue to reign supreme as the matriarch of the family. I speak from experience when I say it’s quite fun being the boss.
Here’s to a century of grace, grit, and good humour. May you enjoy the warmth of family and friends, a few slices of cake, and some cuts of ginger with a tickle of whiskey.
Affectionately, from one queen to another,
Elizabeth Regina
Somewhere between Balmoral and the Great Beyond
Two hours vanished. As we got ready to leave, Grandma handed us some Christmas cards and pressed cash into Sarah’s hand.
‘It’s one year this Sunday,’ she said. ‘Buy some flowers and put them down for your mum and dad. You said he liked roses?’
It still doesn’t feel real. This Sunday marks a year since my dad passed away. Seeing Grandma reach 100 without him felt strange. She has outlived two sons now, the boys she raised in this house, who once rode bicycles through the village before upgrading to motorbikes at thirteen to race around the woods.
Blink, and everything changes. Blink, and a year passes. Blink, and a century passes.
‘You just have to keep going, my dears,’ she said. ‘And remember, if you don’t laugh, you’ll cry.’
We put on our shoes.
‘Cheerio, my loves. Thank you so much for coming. I’ll wave you off from the window,’ she said. ‘Love and kisses.’
P.S. Amongst all the grief, I discovered I have a modest talent for counterfeiting. Wanting the letter to feel official, I put a royal letterhead together to give the Queen’s words a bit more gravitas.
I’m slowly finding my feet again after losing both parents, so expect more stories and updates as we head into 2026.
