Anji's nightly telephone calls to Kings Road are marathon, and even the most vague generalities of her day are spiced with such absurd account that the two hours kneeling in an unheated hall, ears numb and jaw aching, are always worth the labor. "Oh, I went to the doctor today," begins Anji. "Y-e-e-s?" I say, impatient for Part Two. "He said I've got six weeks to live," she breezes, almost throwaway. I laugh because everything in Anji's delivery is funny - and she knows it. "Yeah - leukaemia, hang on ... there's someone at the door." Some weeks later Anji's life has met its deadline, liberating laughter leading her every step to the grave, never losing her edge for an instant, bearing sadness with dignity, and always explaining herself so well, at peace with death as she was with life, the black earth of Haslingden entombing seventeen years of best endeavor and generosity. I see her now - peeling potatoes in the sun and laughing her head off.
From Autobiography
