Published: Irish Independent Weekend Magazine 18/03/12
When I was eight, I moved schools to De La Salle BNS, an all-boys primary school in Finglas. It was a grim place full of dark corridors, clunky doors that echoed long after they'd been slammed and a seemingly endless supply of portly men who wandered the corridors carrying huge bunches of keys like waddling jailers.
Despite the terror I felt that morning, I couldn't help but feel excited. De La Salle had a wonderful advantage over my previous school. You could go home for lunch.
Granny Power (name, not a catchphrase) lived across the road from the school, and so it was all arranged.
Every Wednesday at 12.20pm I would sit in the kitchen chatting about my morning as my granny boiled the kettle for a Cup-a-Soup or made me sandwiches and filled me full of biscuits.
At that time, I believed I was an adult at last. I now sipped 7-Up from a mug at the big table. Normally, I'd be relegated to the plastic cups my younger sisters used.
My granddad would eat with me. Sometimes, my granny would repeat something I said in a mutter and he'd guffaw while I popped chunks of soupy bread into my mouth.
For those 40 minutes a week, I was important. I would try to impress her by chatting about anything I'd overheard my mother talking about.
At that point I was her only grandson and she would often pat my cheek and refer to me as her "one and only". I remember the conversation when I had to give up this title, when my cousin Craig was born. She asked what I thought about having another boy for a cousin.
I sipped my 7-Up slowly and said, "Ah ... it's grand for a change" in my new world-weary manner. My granny ruffled my hair and said, "Ah, you were the first."
The next few years brought an influx of grandsons and I clung tightly to this consolation and my Wednesday lunchtimes.
Sunday morning visits were like trips to the ATM. Grandad Power took pleasure one morning in giving us little piles of the newly minted 20p coin.
I remember Granny Farrelly sternly warning us, "Don't make money your God", and, as if on cue and with a glint in his eye, my grandad began doling out pound notes.
I don't remember my last school lunch with my granny. It must have been around the time I went to secondary school. It was something I grew out of. You only seem to realise you've grown long after you've done it.
At some point she stopped shouting "Mind yourself crossing the road", and at another I noticed she seemed smaller.
This is a lovely time in a relationship with your elders. You become privy to the stories that get muttered just out of earshot.
We tend to think that older people inhabit our world, yet this is their world which they have allowed us to change.
At Christmas, I was tucking my granny into the car and, as I leaned across her to click in her seat-belt, she grabbed my hand and said, "I really like your friend."
She smiled, "I'd be after him meself."
It was a lovely moment. She followed it with "nothing matters once you're happy".
My granny passed away a few weeks ago. There is a feeling that there has been a horrible mistake.
As well as being deeply sad, there's a mixture of frustration and calm. As if you'd waited ages for a food order and it's wrong.
There has been a big stupid mix-up, but if I could just drop in this evening and find her sitting in her armchair, we'll brush over the whole sorry mess.
It's comforting to know that I had her long enough to truly appreciate her. I remember the times when I would be driving her somewhere. The simplest of journeys to Wexford became an adventure. A quest for a cup of tea and a cake, something light, but a big wedge of it.
There is a selfish part of me that really wanted to make her proud. She was so proud of all her grandchildren and loved every one. They returned this tenfold.
I remember once after a show, when talking to someone from the audience, she came up and said, "I'm his granny", and gave me a hug. I almost burst.
The day she died I met cousins I hadn't seen in years. I realised I still knew so much about them because each week she would tell us. One poignant moment came when my nephew came into the sitting room calling my dad "grandad". As we sat there heart-broken, one of my cousins sniffled, "I haven't heard anyone shout that in this house for a long time."
If you still have your granny you probably know how lucky you are, but this weekend buy her a bunch of flowers anyway. Nice ones. Not ones from a garage.
Gearóid Farrelly is a comedian.
Weekend Magazine