My grandmother, Rosalind Runcie, was clever, funny, outspoken and kind. She was a gifted musician with a love of the theatrical and she knew how to laugh at herself. Unfortunately, women like that are often the target of unwanted male attention and gossip.
And so we come to the startling claims by the 91-year-old former Dean of Canterbury, Victor de Waal, that he had an "inappropriate" relationship with her in 1986, which he says caused my grandfather Robert Runcie, then Archbishop of Canterbury, to ask for de Waal's resignation.
Sadly, both of my grandparents are dead, so we can't get their take on all this. My grandmother, who died in 2012, isn't here to say it's all nonsense while pouring everyone a glass of Sancerre, but I'll happily do it for her.
Those who were around at the time certainly remember very different circumstances surrounding de Waal's resignation, ones which show him in a much less flattering light.
Still, it seems you can say whatever you like about dead people (by the way, remind me to tell you the story of my passionate affair with Zsa Zsa Gabor when you’ve got a moment).
The truth is, in 1986 Lindy Runcie was a vivacious woman with her own career as a classical pianist at a time when clergy wives were largely expected just to be quiet and make the tea.
She celebrated a different kind of life for women in the church, a religious life enjoyed and valued for its own sake, and newspapers punished her for it.
Speculations in the press about my grandparents' marriage upset them to the extent they issued a joint statement confirming how happy they were together, but it didn't seem to be enough.
Clearly, as this story is still running 35 years on, my grandmother is still being punished. Photographs from that time show her as I remember her: laughing her head off, playing the fool, ready to temper the pomp of my grandfather's role as Archbishop with a joke and a dose of real life (she often made him do the washing up; it was good for him).
I think, for him, her outspokenness was a reminder of his straight-talking childhood in Liverpool and his formative experiences in the Armed Forces during the Second World War.
Lindy Runcie, not least when lying on top of her piano for a photoshoot, looked beautiful and confident.
No wonder blokes she knew 30 years ago are retrospectively claiming to have had some kind of romantic involvement with her. In their dreams, frankly.
My grandmother sometimes said outrageous things that got her into trouble. She was widely considered to be great fun, loudly abandoning dull evening gatherings so that she could go home and watch Monty Python's Flying Circus.
She had a gift for metaphor – she invited nosy journalists who had cast aspersions on her marriage to a press conference at Lambeth Palace, ostensibly to admire her work in the gardens, before making them tramp through the mud. This amused her friends, but only led to others making more assumptions about her private life.
A butler at the Old Palace at Canterbury once said to her: "When you have your second career, I hope I'm your first customer." She asked him what he was talking about. He said: "When you join the oldest profession."
She was appalled by this. She was, actually, quite a strait-laced and old-fashioned sort of person. And yet, because she had a charismatic presence and stood up for herself, people felt free to speculate about her morals.
Sexist comments were made in the press along the lines of my grandfather needing to keep his wife in check.
But everyone who really knew them also knew that her sense of moral direction was at least as strong as his. And so was her faith.
When their first grandchild (that's me) was born in 1989, my grandfather, as Archbishop, had an important meeting the same day.
My grandmother told him that he should come and meet me instead. "Lindy, I can’t," he said. "These people have come all the way from Uganda to see me."
"This baby’s come all the way from Heaven," said Lindy. "Get in the car." And, because she said so, he did.