We were introduced to Tigger through her artist daughter, Charlotte. Tigger lived in London’s trendy Hackney neighbourhood way before people ponced around with rolled-up jeans, pink socks, takeaway coffees and Danish buns. Her house was modest and cosy with loads of books, African artefacts and a neat line of framed photos of each of her 16 grandchildren in the hall.
We went to visit Tigger for an introductory cup of tea and ginger biscuit. It was a little awkward; we were nervous. Tigger wasn’t sure. She kept saying, ‘But I haven’t had a career and I just improvise with whatever food I happen to have available.’ We sat on the sofa, Tigger opposite in a chair. Within the hour, slightly over the tea limit, something clicked and we ended up squeezed together on the sofa with a photo album, Tigger exclaiming, ‘It’s like we’re on a bus!’ We set a date for two weeks later.
