Liz Jones's Diary: The lessons I learned from my sister - YOU Magazine Fashion Beauty Celebrity Health Life Relationships Horoscopes Food Interiors Travel Sign in Welcome!Log into your account Forgot your password? Password recovery Recover your password Search Sign in Welcome! Log into your account Forgot your password? Get help Password recovery Recover your password A password will be e-mailed to you. YOU Magazine Fashion Beauty Celebrity Health Life Relationships Horoscopes Food Interiors Travel Home Life Liz Jones Liz Jones’ s Diary The lessons I learned from my sister By You Magazine - June 6, 2021 For the past ten years, every time I woke up, I was filled with dread. I’d make a mental list of all the challenges. But, for the past few weeks, I’ve scrabbled around for something to worry about, only to come up with nothing. I have a lovely, warm home. I’m so overwhelmed with work I’m turning down assignments. I have the prospect of a nice, normal boyfriend – he messaged the following earlier this week: ‘I haven’t stopped thinking about you since our first date. You are a lot more than just looks. x.’ I’m debt free. I’m about to order a Miele washing machine from John Lewis. Restaurants are open. Gracie no longer wees indoors. Abbey Lossing And then. I woke this morning to an email from Tom, my nephew in Sydney, with news about my sister Lyn. She has been rushed to hospital. She’s in pain. Surgery would kill her and, anyway, she has asked not to have extreme measures. The doctors are making her comfortable. We all know what that means. He writes: ‘I know she’s accepted the situation and understands what’s going to happen, and she’s all right with it. Considering the amount of health issues she’s had to go through over the years, I don’t blame her.’ I wish Tom had known Lynnie when she was young. She was so beautiful, with a retroussé nose, long legs. Her first job after school was in the knitting department of Dickins & Jones. It was the Swinging 60s, and she’d come home every evening clutching Rolling Stones and Beatles magazines. In the 70s, she became a hippie, learning to play guitar, pursued by an endless queue of, as my dad called them, ‘long-haired layabouts’. As a teenager I visited her in her bedsit off Wimpole Street in London: she was by then working in intensive care at the National Heart Hospital. The surgeons fell in love with her, but she was a girl’s girl, making everyone on the ward laugh. But the job took its toll, and she took to going to the pub after each shift to cope with the nightly cracking open of chests, the long hours, the low pay. She craved a husband and children, so when a much younger Aussie backpacker asked her to marry him, she said yes then moved to Australia with him. She spent her first pregnancy flat on her back so as not to lose her baby. When she did lose him – aged 21, he finally succumbed to leukaemia – she was never the same again. Not long after he died, she braved a trip to England. I set her up in my London flat for a bit. Back in Yorkshire, I got a call late at night from a number I didn’t recognise. It was from a doctor. He had found my sister wandering the streets, unable to remember where she was staying. Luckily, she had my mobile number on her. Typical Lynnie. As a student, I’d often visit, and we’d venture into Central London, only for her to get to Oxford Street and say, ‘Now, which way is Debenhams?’ If only her beauty had landed someone to look after her. She thought she was so lucky, coming of age in the late 60s, but that merely meant she was discarded. Seeing Lynnie’s heartache meant I was too worried as a teenager to have anything to do with boys. I was determined to earn my own living, never rely on a man. One afternoon sticks in my mind. I was still at school and had taken the train up from Essex to see her. She opened the door to her bedsit, and it was clear from her expression she had forgotten I was coming. It was mid-afternoon. Her bed was unmade, still warm from a visitor. She was part ashamed, part elated. I’ve been watching The Pursuit of Love. Lynnie was just like Lily James’s Linda: optimistic, arms full of flowers, desperate for guests to leave before a man arrived at 6pm to sweep her off her feet, again. Where are the men now, I wonder, in her hour of need? RELATED ARTICLESMORE FROM AUTHOR Liz Jones In which I m turfed out on to the street Liz Jones In which I m torn between two men Liz Jones In which I have a birthday date DON' T MISS Fiona Bruce Sometimes I struggle not to cry November 14, 2021 17 beautiful 2021 diaries to help you to look forward to December 4, 2020 Why women leave men for women What’ s fuelling the rise of April 28, 2019 Hollywood veteran Laura Linney on plastic surgery friendship and her stellar July 3, 2017 You can shop the khaki jumpsuit from Holly Willoughby’ s new M& S July 17, 2019 The secrets and lies behind this happy family photo April 11, 2021 It’ s cocktail hour Olly Smith’ s cocktail recipes and Eleanor Maidment s canapé November 14, 2021 BBC One has revealed its Christmas TV schedule and there’ s lots December 2, 2020 YOU Beauty Box August Reviews August 1, 2017 Rome has been named the cheapest major city to visit in August 7, 2019 Popular CategoriesFood2704Life2496Fashion2240Beauty1738Celebrity1261Interiors684 Sign up for YOUMail Thanks for subscribing Please check your email to confirm (If you don't see the email, check the spam box) Fashion Beauty Celebrity Life Food Privacy & Cookies T&C Copyright 2022 - YOU Magazine. All Rights Reserved