Page 223 - She's One Crazy Lady!

do with your life.”
I made a note of it.
On the way back from Whitby we
stopped off in York where I came
across a street artist whose work
instantly appealed to me – he was
doing people’s ‘caricatures’. I just
had to have mine done and asked
if his imagination could stretch to
me wearing a pink mortar board as
‘The Crazy Lady’. You will see, from
the front cover, he did a great job
and even then I knew that IF I ever
finished my book, that would have
to be on the cover. He offered to
help me in any way he could which was lovely but I was later to meet ‘STAN’ in Weston Favell Shopping Centre who also did caricatures and portraits – as you will have seen on many of these pages. Stan was the man for what I had in mind. It was during ‘Lockdown’ in 2020 that I really got him on board and commissioned him to do many of the special people in my story – some portraits, some caricatures. He is very good, isn’t he? The likenesses and the quirky features and additions were just what I needed to lighten up my memoirs. ‘Stan The Man’ and I were to build up a really good working relationship. More recently he and his wife have moved to France but we are still very much in touch and he is still adding to my collection – even sending me
his self-portrait (caricature) to include. For me, the best part of this whole project was presenting each person drawn with the original piece of artwork – my way of thanking them. Every single recipient I gave one to was – speechless – and slightly embarrassed, but really loved their portrait caricature – I hope!
Stan was just one of many talented artists who contributed to my story.
When Marilyn and I got back from Whitby there was no time to feel anxious about the nipple procedure as I was having it done the next day! Brother-in-law Andrew had left a good luck message on my phone: “Wouldn’t a raisin and a bit of super glue be easier?”
I wasn’t in the Kinmonth Unit this time, but in another, older area of the hospital, called the Fielding Johnson Ward – a ward I called the Florence Nightingale Ward because that’s what it looked like – two very long rows of beds – very Victorian – with men at one end, women at the other. Was it only yesterday that we were walking along Whitby Harbour listening to the boom of the sea, the crashing of the waves, breathing in the cold, crisp air – on
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