100 years of ermintrude.
A life in 33 stanzas.
Words and music by Tom Evans.
Art and design by Jacetta Truman.
100 years old.
100 orbits of the sun.
Time for life to be undone.
Trudy lies here,
Great granny and all that.
The wreath was made around my hat.
99 years old.
I get so tired now,
Eyesight's nearly gone.
Drift in and out of sleep with the radio on.
Must hang on,
Not long to wait.
I so want that car from HRH.
95 years old.
At last sweet Matthew has found his mate.
At over 30 he was leaving it late.
I was so proud on his wedding day.
Had got over the shock of finding he's gay.
90 years old.
Lucy's voice did not sound fantastic.
She said something about it's metastatic.
Mutated cells started to grow.
They've moved to her bones and the rest.
85 years old.
With two new hips,
I'm on a winner.
Even got rid of that blasted zimmer.
Back in next week to clear the glaucoma,
Have Martin to thank for paying for Bupa.
80 years old.
Annie comes now just once a month.
She asks me to feel her brand new bump.
A great great granny she tells me I'll be.
If it's a boy I ask,
Please call him Henry.
75 years old.
Forget my head next,
I hear him say.
So many now seem to be going that way.
That was the start of our love's parting.
It took four long years to lose my Martin.
70 years old.
Three days a week at Barnardo's.
Keeps me busy sorting the clothes.
Can't believe what they throw away.
Don't they know they may need it someday?
65 years old.
With each life gone,
In comes another.
Nice new man in her life and now twice a mother.
Matthew has Lucy's nose.
I'm sure those are Tim's eyes.
A sweet baby boy hardly ever cries.
60 years old.
Can I come in sir?
Says the young copper.
I thought Martin had done something rather improper.
With helmet in hand he says,
There's been an accident.
Tristan was dead is what he meant.
55 years old.
A job well done,
See it as early retirement.
My lost child Martin,
His energy all spent.
Love of my life though just delivered Annie.
Bit young still to be a granny.
50 years old.
Been 40 years since last seeing my dad.
Wish the circumstance was not so sad.
At least it was quick,
She didn't suffer.
But it's never easy losing your mother.
45 years old.
Lucy Lucy with loose elastic.
All she does now is bend my plastic.
Tattoo on her bum,
At least it says mother.
Boyfriends are goth,
Wish she'd get another.
40 years old.
At last I'm in love,
But the big 4-0.
Downhill they say my tits will go.
Tim's old news now I've got Martin.
Why this long for true love starting?
35 years old.
I never thought I'd live in Tring.
A mother of two,
Now there's a thing.
I hope Lucy and Tristan will get on.
So difficult to tell when he's not yet one.
30 years old.
Lucy is such a bundle of joy.
Would it have been easier if she were a boy?
Thank God for Tim and his job in the city.
Shame he comes home late and feeling shitty.
25 years old.
Brian I've decided has got to go.
I'll miss his flat and friends in Pimlico.
Back to a bedside in Tooting.
A real bummer.
Still a great buzz being a runner.
21 years old.
I'm now Trudy Doe,
BA in Media Studies.
Get a degree they said,
You'll have no worries.
My curriculum vitae on all the sites.
No jobs appear.
My loan is shite.
20 years old.
We're like bosom buddies,
Me and Judy.
My moniker's stuck,
From now on it's Trudy.
This summer we travelled by rail to Brindisi.
Choosing which boy is never that easy.
18 years old.
My head is spinning.
Volca and lime.
Next week I'm off to Newcastle upon Tyne.
Two C's and a D is all they needed.
And A and two B's,
My tutor had pleaded.
16 years old.
Quick as a flash,
It was all over.
After rolling around in a field of clover,
Henry,
My first lover,
Kept in his gum.
Didn't take long to make him come.
15 years old.
I could tell she was mad.
What had I done wrong?
All my friends had them.
I'd come home with a thong.
At twice this age I'd realised what I'd done.
A mother's fear,
When a woman you become.
13 years old.
There came a day that made my mum proud.
At prize giving,
I read a poem out loud.
My knees were knocking,
Voice hardly heard.
But I moved it to tears by writing these words.
11 years old.
Last school was big,
This one's massive.
Bullies say,
Not bothered,
And as if.
Playtime's fantastic.
Football and noise.
First time I start noticing boys.
10 years old.
Saw an elephant do a big poo.
With friends on my birthday at London Zoo.
My dad held me tight,
Smoke on his breath.
Never did like his girlfriend,
Bored me to death.
7 years old.
For my birthday,
A floppy hat.
I took it to school,
I was proud of that.
Came home in tears.
They were so rude.
I have a new nickname.
Erm,
Intrude.
5 years old.
Bigger school now,
I like Mrs Smith.
Like reading too,
But not arithmetic.
Best thing of all,
An activity play.
Chosen as Mary,
To lay Jesus in hay.
4 years old.
Back from school,
Mummies in tears.
Still not seen daddy for nearly a year.
I do know how to make her feel better.
I write down,
I love you,
In letters.
3 years old.
At school now,
With lots of new friends.
I love to draw and make colours blend.
Can't wait to show daddy when he gets home.
But mummy says,
He's on business in Rome.
2 years old.
Out of my cot,
I've learnt to crawl.
And when I'm standing,
I feel so tall.
From their mouths,
So much noise,
It's a real awe.
Hope that soon I can make sense of it all.
1 year old.
Sunlight streams,
I feel its rays.
Here she comes with a smiling face.
Maybe it's cos I've got a full nappy.
It feels warm,
Makes me feel happy.
At 12 weeks.
In the womb,
There's not much room,
Yet I feel safe.
Two hearts do boom.
Nowhere to breathe,
Or place to move.
I grow day by day,
Fed only by tube.
At 8 weeks.
Being 28 days now,
Without any booze,
We're in the garden for our afternoon snooze.
Sleeping on her feet,
Our marmalade cat,
And shading her head,
Her big floppy hat.
Sleep can catch me.
" Thank you for reading and listening.
You've heard about a third of Ermin Trude's life story.
I'm Tom Evans and I wrote Ermin Trude a few years ago on a plane journey.
We published the original ebook a month later and it ended up with me and my partner walking around London in a bra with 15,
000 other women.
Such is the strange path to writing a book takes an hour.
