22 November 2025 Diary
Im writing this for the sake of the old woman who raised me and the little boy I once was.
My gran, Margaret Turner, lived on a modest pension in a tiny Yorkshire hamlet that seemed to consist only of the village centre, the farm shop and her little cottage. One bright Saturday, she gathered the last of her spare penniesbits from her state pension, a handful of eggs, a bundle of parsley and a few jars of homemade chutneyand set off to the new shopping centre in Leeds. It was the first time shed ever left the valleys narrow lanes, and the first time I, Dan Turner, sixplusayearold, stepped inside a building that looked like a glass palace.
Lets see what its like, Gran, I blurted, my eyes as round as chocolate buttons. The bus rumbled gently, and I pressed my forehead against the window, marveling at the city that rose beyond the fields. Grans smile was hidden beneath her lace scarf, but her heart thumped with a mix of excitement and nervousness.
Her sonmy fatherhad gone to work in Spain, promising it would be a twoyear stint. Four years later he still hadnt returned. My own father had vanished one winter, saying hed go to town for a job and never came back. So those two cracked, calloused hands that held me now were the only ones I ever knew as parents.
When we stepped off the bus, the Leeds shopping centre loomed ahead, its steel and glass gleaming in the cold light. Its a proper building, not a joke, Gran whispered, taking a deep breath as if to steady herself for a journey into another world.
The automatic doors slid open, and I felt as if heavens gates were parting. Lord, it feels like the gates of paradise, I muttered, crossing myself in my head so no one would think I was foolish. Inside, fluorescent lights buzzed, pop music thumped, and people hurried past, brandname bags in their hands, women clicking high heels on polished floors, children dressed as if theyd stepped out of a magazine.
Gran clutched my fingers tightly, as though I were a priceless treasure. Look, Gran, there are clothes over there, toys, even that band you see on the telly, I pointed, my voice trembling with awe.
We wandered into a childrens clothing shop. Rows of neatly folded, colourful garments lined the shelvesnothing like the tattered shirts and pants that fought for space in our cupboard at home. A smiling shop assistant said, Feel free to try anything you like.
Grans cheeks flushed. No, no, were just looking she stammered, but I was already pulling a bright blue hoodie with a tiny superhero on the chest over my head. Gran, just let me see how it fits we dont have to buy it.
Holding the hoodie, I remembered the endless worries that haunted Granlittle pension, rising bills, the cost of oil, sugar and medicines. Yet the thought of a new coat for a boy whod never had one brushed those concerns away. Try it on, Gran, I urged, a note of determination in my voice.
She helped me slip the hoodie over my shoulders; it fit as if it were made for me. I stared at my reflection, and for a fleeting moment I wasnt the scrawny lad with knobby knees and threadbare clothes. I looked like the boy in the adverts on the big screen, the one who seemed to belong to a world far beyond our fields.
Grans eyes welled up. You were lovely in those old clothes, but this this seems made for you.
When I saw the price tag£19.99her heart clenched. She quickly calculated how many loaves of bread, how many kilograms of flour, how many tram rides she could afford with that sum. Yet she looked back at me, seeing my small hands tugging at the hoodies sleeves, trusting that Id wear it with pride.
Gran, lets get it, I said, my voice steady. Its not much, but well take it.
She nodded, a tiny smile breaking through her worry. Alright, love. Take good care of it, okay? Its a promiseone day youll be a grown man and well walk these aisles together again.
We drifted past rows of toys. I lingered at every miniature car, each Lego set, every flashing toy gun, my eyes bright but my mouth silent. At seven, Id already learned that wishes were measured in pounds, and pounds never fell from the sky; they came from the worn palms of a gran who had spent a lifetime digging, carrying wood, scrubbing the basin.
Come back later and have a look, Gran, I said, feeling my knees ache. Gran, the bench over there is waiting for you; my legs are getting tired.
We settled on a wooden bench near the escalators. Gran placed the new hoodie carefully in her canvas bag, next to a small loaf of rye shed bought from the bakerya tiny piece of our village in the middle of this glass labyrinth.
Dont go far, Gran, I called, Ill just head to the toy shop opposite.
Go on, love, I can see you from here.
I trotted off, a little clumsy, while Gran stayed, watching me disappear among the crowds of shoppers, their phones glowing, their laughter echoing. No one gave her a second glance; some might have thought she was just an old woman lost in the city. Yet she didnt feel lost. For the first time in years, she felt exactly where she belongedright there, between the cold lights and the bustling noise, her heart full.
She whispered a quiet prayer, Lord, look after us. Keep my sons father safe wherever he may be, and give me strength in these old hands to guide my grandson onto the right path.
I didnt hear her prayer, but I felt it in the gentle squeeze of my small hand against hers. I love you, Gran, I said simply.
The bright lights of the centre seemed to dim for a moment, and the world narrowed to a bench, a canvas bag, a fresh loaf, and a brandnew hoodie. In that instant, I understood that no amount of money could ever buy the warmth of a grans love, nor the pride of wearing something that made you feel seen.
Lesson: wealth is measured not in pounds but in the simple, steadfast love that bridges generations, and that love is the truest currency of all.
