My grandmother passed away a few weeks ago. In keeping with custom, we set about making the funeral preparations, and in particular the obituary in her funeral programme. Most obituaries I have read tend to be a narration of facts about your life: where you were born, who you married, who survives you. Indeed my grandmother’s was no different. It left me wanting, for a more compelling account of her existence, one that gave her voice and agency in the life that she led; all ninety years of it. A feminist eulogy of sorts.