Nana In The Red Light District

"Where the bloody hell have you brought me?!"

It's December 2002 and, in my wisdom, I have brought my nana to Amsterdam to celebrate her 80th birthday.

I'm her oldest and favourite grandchild and the others call me Goldenballs because I can seemingly do no wrong. But there's a reason for that.

It's me she calls to change a lightbulb even though I live forty miles away, me who visits her every weekend and me who has enjoyed every minute of every trip I've ever taken with her. They don't know what they're missing, she's awesome!

So yeah, 80 is a special birthday and I know she's never been to Amsterdam, so a few weeks ago, in a moment of madness, I booked the tickets.

The drive to the ferry is uneventful and she's rather quiet, unusual in itself for this mile-a-minute talker, but I know she's nervous about the journey across the North Sea. Not because she has any kind of issue with boats, no, her concern is that we'll be targeted by terrorists, specifically, Saddam Hussein! Don't ask, I have no idea.

She takes my arm as we walk onto the huge passenger ferry for the overnight crossing to Rotterdam and I squeeze her hand. I love the bones off this woman and nothing shall spoil her weekend. Not even Saddam.

An hour and a couple of french coffees later, she's relaxed, so relaxed that she turns to me and asks if I can see the top of her head because she can no longer feel it. I laugh out loud as I watch her patting her old lady curls, smiling as she reassures herself that her head is indeed where it should be.

The next morning we're up bright and early to catch the bus to Amsterdam. I'm keen to be one of the first to board so I can choose a nana appropriate seat. You see, this woman has no filter and what enters her head will exit through her mouth unless I can stop it. She has the biggest heart and looks like butter wouldn't melt in her mouth, but I can't tell you how often I've had to steer her away from a person or a scene I just know she will comment upon. And she's not what you'd call quiet!

Unfortunately, there's already a queue for the bus when we get there and the driver is letting people on. We shuffle towards the doors and I guide her to what I think is a safeish seat, ensuring she's not in the aisle. I look around, most seats are taken now so I can relax.

Except I can't.

The very last person to board is a young woman wearing white see-through leggings. And I mean see through. I hold my breath and point at something off to the left in a last ditch attempt to distract her. No chance.

"Look at her! Her arse must be frozen!"

Shoot me now!

There is silence as everyone looks around to see who made the comment. The young woman blushes to roots of her bleached blond hair and almost runs, mortified, to the first available seat.

For some reason everyone is looking at me and I can either absolve myself and point to my nana or do exactly what I always do: smile weakly and hope they think I have some kind of a problem.

I do. She's sitting next to me!

Amsterdam is cold but very beautiful and we spend a wonderful couple of hours ambling along the cobbled streets, dropping into shops that look interesting or just to warm up a little. She buys postcards for her friends, comments loudly on all the prices and tells me at the most inopportune moment that Dutch is a funny sounding language and it would be better if they spoke English or Austrian. I smile weakly at those who stare, and move her along.

As lunchtime approaches I begin to scan ahead looking for somewhere I know she will love and we soon find the perfect little place, tucked into a side street. The food is both delicious and warming and afterwards she writes her postcards, the very tip of her tongue protruding as she concentrates. Her arthritis is always more pronounced in the cold and her fingers are stiff as she holds the pen in one hand and her open address book in the other.

I drink my beer and quietly observe her as she forms each letter separately and with great care. She likes to do this without help, but looks up at me occasionally and asks how to spell a word, and as each card is finished, she passes it to me to check and affix the stamp. It's one of our rituals and we're in no hurry.

Back out on the street, we wander on, looking for a post box as well as those shops which might interest us.

We stand and look up at the Anne Frank house and she gets very quiet. She was 16 when Hitler annexed her beloved Austria and I know there are occupation and war related traumas she will likely take to her grave.

After a few minutes she squeezes my hand and we move on.

Next up is an afternoon coffee and cake stop and this time it's her turn to choose. As we walk along, I notice that many of them have cannabis symbols in the window and wonder if we're now in a particular part of town. Oh God! We're getting cold again though, so we'll need to find something soon.

Suddenly she's off, pulling me behind her as she spots a café she likes the look of. I open my mouth to point out the huge cannabis flag in the window, but it's too late, she's through the door.

"It smells funny in here." she declares, looking around.

Turning to a waitress she asks if there's a non-smoking section as she wants to be away from this funny smell. The waitress suppresses a grin and leads us to an unoccupied area.

We drink the glorious hot chocolate and linger over the delicious cake, but she's completely confused as to why this café is unlike anything she's ever seen in England, Austria or Germany. I'll tell her when we're on our own!

An hour later and it's starting to get dark. The temperature is dropping and I'm aware that we need to get rid of her postcards before we head back to meet our bus. I have no idea where we are and suggest we walk a little further and then head to our meeting point, in a taxi if necessary.

We turn a corner, chatting about the best things we've seen that day, when suddenly I notice that this street is unlike all the others. Left and right there are illuminated windows, behind which scantily clad ladies are dancing provocatively.

Oh shit!

She stops in her tracks and looks around in disbelief. This is a woman for whom the pleasures of the flesh do not exist and my grandfather would be batted away when he tried to give her a kiss or a cuddle.

"Where the bloody hell have you brought me?"

Her face is such a picture of horror mixed with curiosity that I begin to laugh and pull her on down the street. We're here now so she might as well experience a little more. She's mesmerised and at one point even waves at one of the girls.

"She looks like Elsie's eldest, you know, her who works at the supermarket."

"Do you not think they're cold?"

"I wonder if their mothers know what they're up to…"

"Well would you look at that!"

As we reach the end of the street I spot two things: a postbox and a taxi. Grabbing her cards I deposit them in the box and then bundle her into the warmth of the taxi. I tell the driver where we want to go and she tells him what she's just seen.

From that day to the day of her passing, some 14 years later, she tells everyone she meets, and with a mixture of horror and pride, that her granddaughter took her to Amsterdam's red light district for her 80th birthday.

The reactions to that announcement, dear reader, I will leave you to imagine…