Today I have been thinking of the wonderful storyteller Taffy Thomas. I am going to see him on 28^th January at Birmingham’s Museum and Art gallery, where Taffy hands over the role of Storytelling Laureate to Katrice Horsley another fantastic weaver of tales.

Taffy holds several accolades; one being the first ever storytelling Laureate for the past two years. The other having his services to storytelling recognised by Her Majesty the Queen in the shape of an MBE.

He is a wonderful down to earth man and tells his stories beautifully, he makes stories which are often interwoven with meaning dance and trip off his tongue.  The beauty of this is that he makes it look simple which is the precision of his work and the art of a true genius. I have seen him hold audiences spellbound on many occasions by his gentle and beautiful way with words.

He is also a fine and generous human being, when I was first embarking on my own storytelling journey I went along to his wonderful storytelling garden in Grasmere to watch one of his Sunday lunchtime summer shows; I had said to him I would love to become a storyteller and while knowing only one or two stories was there to watch an expert at work. Halfway through his set Taffy stopped;

“Now” said he, “I would like to introduce you to a very fine teller of tales, put your hands together for Creaky Knee”......

And so it was that day I first told a story in front of one of my heroes and an audience in a true storytelling garden! Taffy has continued to only call me Creaky Knee, which always makes me smile.

Since then I have been lucky enough to tell stories at Taffy’s gardens a few times and to get to know Taffy and his lovely wife Chrissy quite well. Taffy travels thousands of miles every year but always has the energy to have conversations with his many, many fans. I have met people who bring their children to one of my shows that talk about their first experience of storytelling, sitting as children themselves at Taffy’s knee.

He wasn’t always a storyteller. Part of his remarkable story is what prompted me to write this blog today. Taffy used to be a fire eater many years ago, and some say he was also brilliant at that.

At the very young age of thirty five Taffy had a massive stroke which left him incapacitated. He used storytelling as a way of getting himself better; he had lost the use of his left hand side and, as with many stroke victims, was unable to use his voice properly. Gradually, through storytelling he started to get that back and today he is one of, if not, THE, most famous storyteller in the world.

I know that Taffy does a great deal of work with people who have suffered strokes, and I wish that I had known him when I was a small child. Which is why he came up in my thoughts today; I took a long walk up to Shropshire’s Stiper stones, again I was thinking about my life and my own personal story and journey.  I got to thinking about my Grandmother.  I don’t really remember a great deal about her. She was my mother’s mother, the only conscious memory I have of her is when I was playing with the ants as a child in her garden, and she poured boiling water all over them to my horror!

She had a massive stroke when I was about seven or eight years old; my parents had moved away from Harrow where she lived so we drove the hour and a half journey there every fortnight to visit her in hospital.

That hospital was always a scary place for me as a small child. I remember it now very well. The smell of the bed linen; the disinfectant and the buzzing florescent lights. My Nan was incapacitated. She was unable to speak, feed herself or even move without aid. Her bed was right opposite the door in a big long ward full of ladies. When we arrived we had to walk through the entire ward. The ladies in there were all older. I remember trying not to look either side as I walked up to my Nan’s bed, keeping my eyes fixed firmly in front, concentrating on my grandmother and her bed alone. One of the ladies in the next bed had lost her legs. This terrified me for some reason. I remember the old woman offering me a sweet every time I visited. I never took one. Now, knowing better, I wish I had, I don’t think I even gave that poor lady a smile.

But in those days when I was so young even my Nan scared me. The fact that she couldn’t talk and could not move. The fact that she was in this starched place that often smelt of death and decay. The nurses I remember were lovely; a big black woman called Gladwin would bring me a cup of orange squash, then they would feed my Nan milky tea in a pink plastic beaker. I remember my Nan trying to talk to my Mum and Dad; but I was never able to understand the words. They were slurred, almost drunk. I remember her eyes, so full of nothing. Every hour on those visits two nurses would turn my Nan in her bed, and I remember watching her and thinking how like a baby she had become.

The biggest memory I have of this time is rather a sad one, and one I wish I did not own. It was the last visit before my Nan sadly passed away (I say sadly, in many respects it was a relief). At the end of each visit a bell would sound, indicating that the time was over.

I was always held up to my Nan to kiss her cheek. This time, her head tilted towards me; our eyes locked. Her grey staring eyes still stay with me now. Full of nothing, yet full of love. I remember watching as a single tear drop fell down her cheek and onto the starched white linen. As I kissed that cheek the saltiness of her tear tingled upon my lips, the salt teardrop was almost given as a gift. This was the last memory I had of a woman I never really knew.

In the car on the way home my mother would always cry, my dad would comfort her. Their muffled voices would be soaked up by the cars revving engine.  I would sit next to my young sister and watch the orange glow of street lights as they lit up my eight year old world. I did not really understand what was wrong with her; I was just happy to be out of that hospital; away from the smells and the old ladies searching eyes and heading towards home.

I remember the Tuesday morning; when my Mum got a call from the hospital to say that my Nan had gone. It was winter and very cold. I remember eating Ready Break while my mother sobbed into the telephone.

I would give anything for that time back. I would give anything to sit with the old lady who had lost her legs, to take her my own bag of sweets, to give her a single smile. To listen to her story.  I would give anything to be able to kiss my Nan and tell her I wasn’t afraid of her and that I understood her pain even though she could not speak. But sadly one is unable to change time.

I want to end this blog by congratulating Taffy Thomas; for all that he has done in the storytelling world. For being the first Laureate and for being honoured with that MBE. I want to congratulate him for being an amazing man and a wonderful ambassador for storytelling.

But bigger than that, I want to congratulate him for the work he has continued to do with so many people like my Nan; I am sure over the years he has been an inspiration to many people who have found themselves in a similar position and as a storyteller and a man I am proud to know him. I would also like to wish Katrice Horsley a wonderful storytelling adventure as the new Laureate. How exciting. Happy days.