Lonely Boy: Tales from a Sex Pistol by Steve Jones:
Most of my memories of those times are happy ones. Like my nan giving me a bath in the sink, or making those amazing old-fashioned steamed suet puddings where she’d stretch a cloth over the top of the bowl and tie it with a piece of string. She’d fill the bowl with raisins and then cover the whole thing in treacle from a green and gold Tate & Lyle tin. There’s some things which happened last week that I don’t remember too well, but fifty-five years on I can feel how good that pudding tasted on my tongue as if I’m eating it right now.
My nan wasn’t spoiling me, she was just doing what any normal grandparent (or parent, come to that) would’ve done – nurturing, I suppose, is what you’d call it. I don’t remember my mum so much at this time, even though she was there. The flat was pretty crowded, so it was easy to lose track of people, but it’s my nan I remember doing all the cleaning up and making the dinners and checking everyone was all right. She was great.