Patricia – “Patsy” as we always knew her – was a fixture of my childhood.  Our families were friends – if not ever since I can remember, but certainly THERE, fully present, all of a sudden but as if always, from before I was ten.  We were immigrants – comfortably off, but not exactly comfortable, in the English suburbia of the 70s.  “Patsy and Gerry” seemed as warmly ‘foreign’ as we, and were the original power-couple (but a benign one).  Patsy was energetic without ever being frenetic. Hearing her voice – that wonderful, refined accent – was enough to melt worries away and make you feel like celebrating.  I knew that she and my mum didn’t agree on every political point, but it never mattered.  I think it’s the holidays we spent in Wales I’ll remember the most – that huge rectory with the double-windowed dining-room looking out at the fields.  Patsy presided over nightly feasts (there were at was one table for the kids and maybe two for the adults, because the house was bursting with guests) – her fiery cooking and warm personality heating up that chilly, though lovely, house.  

Seeing her thrive in Mallorca was a joy. She never shrunk into old age but kept on expanding her mind, her experiences, her wisdom and kindness.