Leigh O'Neill, 85a St Paul's Street, Naxxar (2025)

08/10/2025

Happy Wednesday 🧡

07/10/2025

Good Morning 🌺

04/10/2025

One month before turning 95, Patricia Routledge wrote this, she died today aged 96.

“I’ll be turning 95 this coming Monday. When I was younger, I often worried I wasn’t good enough—that I’d never be cast again, that I’d disappoint my mother. But these days begin in peace and end in gratitude.”

In my forties, my life finally began to make sense. Before that, I’d performed steadily—provincial stages, radio plays, West End productions—but felt somewhat lost. I was searching for something within myself, a home I hadn’t yet found.

At 50, I took a television role that many of you would later know me by—Hyacinth Bucket from Keeping Up Appearances. I thought it would just be a minor role, a brief moment. I never expected it to become beloved across the globe. That character taught me to embrace my quirks and quietly healed something deep within me.

At 60, I started learning Italian—not for my career, but simply so I could sing opera in its native tongue. I learned the gentle art of living alone without loneliness, reading poetry aloud each night—not to perfect diction, but to soothe my spirit.

At 70, I returned to Shakespearean theatre, a place I once thought I’d aged out of. This time, there was nothing to prove. I stepped onto those legendary boards with calmness. The audience felt that serenity. I had stopped performing; I was simply being.

At 80, I discovered watercolor painting. I painted flowers from my garden, nostalgic hats from my youth, and faces glimpsed on the London Underground—each painting was a silent memory made tangible.

Now, at 95, I write letters by hand. I’m learning the simple joy of baking rye bread. I still breathe deeply each morning. Laughter remains precious, though I no longer feel the need to make others laugh. Quietness is sweeter than ever.

I’m writing this today to share something simple and true:

Growing older isn’t a final act—it can be life’s most exquisite chapter if you allow yourself to bloom once more.

Let the years ahead be your treasure years.
You don’t have to be perfect, famous, or adored.
You only need to be present—fully—for the life that’s yours.

With warmth and gentle love,
— Patricia Routledge

RIP