Life just keeps dishing up the goods.
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In this week, the one that marks the first anniversary of my mum's death, my daughters have lost another Nan.
My husband's mother - Mrs Cynthia Grosser - has moved on to her next destination, and the world will never see another one like her.
Cynthia was at every one of her grandaughters' performances as they grew up.
She probably would have qualified for some kind of award for attending the most dancing and singing concerts, plays, musicals and birthday parties.
Even if she wasn't really that sure which one of the dozens of darling tots on stage was her darling, she did her best to figure it out.
Some of my favourite memories are of my mum and Cynthia whispering loudly in the theatre as they tried to identify who they were supposed to be studying on stage.
Never just a spectator in her own life, Cynthia was of the ilk who grew up on the farm with a father who fought in France and Turkey in the first world war.
She milked cows and collected eggs and had to leave school early to help on the farm.
She sewed, learnt to play music by ear and did so at the local dances where she met her husband-to-be.
Cynthia didn't just play hockey, she captained a team that played at State level and if there wasn't a team where she found herself living, she formed one.
She got hooked on a sport and became great at it, loving the laughs and friendships that came with the competition.
A cheeky, funny domestic goddess who always had the birthday card ready with a generous amount of money in it, Cynthia was slowed down by a stroke that meant moving into care for her final year.
A little confused at the end - which seems perfectly acceptable at the great age of 90 - Cynthia still thought she had a load of washing on the line the last day I spoke with her.
And isn't that a lovely way to go? A good washing day is a good day.
The sun is shining, the breeze is drying those sheets, and when they go back onto the bed, it's going to be a goodnight.
Goodnight Cynthia.
