"Flossy, when you were born everyone brought me sweetpeas. The hospital room smelled of nothing but sweetpeas".

I felt the missing last week, when my friend Leonie gave me a posy of sweetpeas, days before what would have been mum's 91st birthday.

No one else calls me Flossy, and it's hearing my mum say "Flossy'' that I miss, 18 months since she passed away.

Mum told me the sweetpea story every spring, along with how much I was loved.

This week, Leonie's sweetpeas sat smiling on my kitchen counter. Leonie and her sister Suzanne lost their dad this year.

And another friend's fine old dad died last month.

And most sad among these passings was the sudden loss to one of my very sweetest readers, of her beloved soulmate. Vale John.

I was crushed by a cleansing wave of grief for the full 24 hours of mum's birthday on Wednesday.

On Friday I learned of another passing - no tears from me, just a bundle of fabulous lessons and memories.

Noel Shaw - this newspaper's literary editor, cadet trainer, stunning sub-editor and consummate newspaperman - passed away last Thursday. (Note: The day he always came into the newsroom to edit book reviews for the Saturday edition.)

His newsroom values of accuracy, fearlessness and respect will stay strong in the four generations who benefited from his knowledge.

We will remember his formal, silver-grey suits and shining shoes topped with his smart, matching silver Brylcreemed locks.

Mr Shaw loved his garden and he loved words.

Mr Shaw has seen his last spring.

Coincidentally, every September for 20 years, Mr Shaw gave me sweetpeas.

Vale Noel Shaw and those values and knowledge he so generously shared.

I gave it a moment's consideration and decided I would not remove my moustache before I went for dental surgery last week.

After all, it is Movember and the dental surgeon was reminiscent of one of my favourite theatrical enigmas, John Malkovich (hereinafter to be referenced Magnificent Mr Malkovich).

I needed all the chin-hair testosterone I could muster for the removal of the delinquent molar that's been playing up since March.

Three courses of antibiotics, for a person who hasn't touched them for nearly a decade, is not my idea of a healthy option.

When I surveyed my chin and lip hair, I decided I'd let my inner Greek dominate my dental proceedings.

I also chose my dental wardrobe - keeping with the Greek theme - and wore black - to hide the blood I expected to flow.

A mate Max (not Greek) didn't help.

Apparently, he had the same procedure and went for the 'full general' while I bravely opted for 'the captain', a local anaesthetic topped up with a small stash of Valium as a handy dandy pre-med.

This year, I've discovered the joy of paying someone to wax my upper lip, after years of plucking, home waxing and avoidance.

In September, my hairdresser 'noticed' and offered to remove my Sean Connery not-so-designer stubble.

Fabulous.

Ten weeks since my first wax, before my appointment with Magnificent Mr Malkovich, there was a veritable salt and pepper of Sean Connery across my upper lip, with the odd lengthy, non-conformist outrider around my chin line.

Ironically, my facial waxing appointment fell due the same day I was squeezed in for the dental procedure.

I know many would opt for a waxing over dental surgery, however the Magnificent Mr Malkovich was a perfectionist, kind and took arguably less time and way less pain.

Take a bow, Magnificent Mr Malkovich.