My Mormor. Fiercely determined to hang on to the life she loved until the last second, and with dignity.

I remember years ago, happy days spent with my brother in her Cambridge bungalow where we were allowed to make our own way on the coach. Walking on stilts in the garden, or roller-skating around her local streets; making cakeshops with her potter's clay; taunting ants with bouncy balls. I remember, older, relaxing on her outdoor furniture in the sunshine, indulging in the delicious apple cake she always made in our honour; waking in the morning to the enticing aromas of freshly-baked breakfast rolls and coffee.

Always immaculately presented, with fresh lipstick and haircut, vibrant clothing and chunky jewellery, she would envigorate any social occasion with her entertaining anecdotes and risqué jokes, told in lyrical Danish accent. She loved laughter around her: I have a vivid memory of tears streaming down her cheeks while she mimed to the Laughing Policeman, and who could help but share her enthusiasm? She was never happier than when surrounded by young people and would, I'm sure, have sacrificed every moment of quiet time to fill her living space with chatter and laughter and those who loved her.

Even in her slow decline she faced every moment with intense dignity. I have visited her in hospital ward and nursing home and never have I heard a half word uttered of self-pity. Not one to dwell on hardship she would ask about our lives and live vicariously through our joys and sorrows. Even as she took her last breath in the cold hours of Sunday morning she retained her dignified untouchable beauty. And when there was no more breath, all I wanted to do was shout in desperation "Where are you? Where have you gone?"

Mormor. Unforgettable. Rest in peace.