It would be easy to be sad today, because you're not here. I could regret those last few years of being your carer instead of your daughter, or resent that you upstaged me (again!) by dying the day before my birthday. Today I choose to remember how lucky I was. We had tremendous rows, but you were always in my corner. Sometimes you were difficult, opinionated, but I remember the passions - dogs, country music, astrology, history - and conversations on a thousand topics - like me, you were a mine of useless information. Whenever they play Elvis, Jim Reeves, Billie-Jo or Patsy on the radio, I'm back in my childhood home by the stereogram or by the kitchen range with you. You couldn't sing and never remembered the words, but we'd sing them anyway. You were never motherly, but you were always interested in my day and my plans. You supported my ideas, big and small, from drama school to dreams of a new beginning in another land - nothing was impossible. Some say we were symbiotic, but we were a great double act, able to charm the birds from the trees or to bamboozle bank managers. You were not always emotionally available (probably undiagnosed autistic) but you recognised the social awkwardness in me and bought me my first show-dog - my Cavalier, Ruby (can that be 50 years ago?) - and that newfound ability to walk onto life's stage with confidence has stayed with me since. Yes, there is a tiny five-foot-and-half-an-inch missing piece by my side, but I have an overflowing cup of memories of the giant double-Leo that was my Mummy.