Desperately Wonderfully Ill

Was never sure whether or not to laugh, smile or cry when auntie came to tea, a matriarch she, wearing white gloves plus purple cardigan - seven buttons tidy, top one below chin, and a black beret perched precariously over left unplucked brow. In winter she wore a short fur cape. It smelled of mothballs. Her first words demanded I be good becauser, in her pocket she had a surprise. Of course, I knew exactly what was what because small girls knew such things!   Given gently - a book, a miniature book, one to hold in my palm, a book with tissue fine paper, smelling of age, covered in swirling letters, held 'tween soft leather covers plus spine gold-type title. Mind you, the titles seemed foreign, but full of magic - apparently. I was only eight years old, still enjoying pictures and rhymes, not funny old words auntie insisted on reading after her surprise - wrapped in blue toilet paper then put into a paper bag was passed over with a hug and almost a kiss.   Auntie had been the family’s first female to have a three layer education. History was her subject, with prizes and cups awarded. But, language was her love, words were her suitors, books were her life. Considered single, childless, she quite liked me - apparently. My little ma told her I’d used the words ‘de-lec-table’ and ‘ny Eve’ - from a tale told by a TV lady wearing a long skirt and ear-rings. Thus, auntie laughed for the first time in years, exclaiming, ‘That girl will go far, let her fly. I’ll navigate.’   ‘Prothalamion’, ‘Il Penseroso’, ‘To Skylark’ (wonderful!) were but a few of the gifts dear Bella gave, sniffing into her cup as I pretended appreciation - an ultra long  polite smile. My friends were given Milligan, Betjamin and Roger McGough but auntie had decided that if I were to understand literature then, her taste was the unsullied, academic rule of thumb! That lasted til I was weeks short of eighteen and reading words with more than five letters like idiosyncrasy and gravitas!   One day, ill with measles I found my copy of 'Il Pensero' and flicked a few pages, 'O let my lamp at midnight hour be seen in some high.' The words sang, I sensed something, felt something, felt that man Milton knew 'bout Hermes and other clever things. I was hooked. Mother phoned Bella who came a’rushing to read the poem to me - every comma and dot. Plus, she didn’t complain when she came out in a rash soon after. She’d infected me with a love of words. Whilst.. I’m still desperately, wonderfully ill!