Hey, do you remember that time, as I’m constantly reminded, EVERY FUCKING CHRISTMAS, when I said I wouldn’t eat the flaming pudding because it was burnt?
No?
That’s because you didn’t grow up in my house.
And here are seven more things you won’t remember unless you’re me.
The button on my portable black and white television that was labelled AFC and never seemed to show any Arsenal football matches.
Locking myself in the toilet to play with dangerous objects like knitting needles and knives, but being only three and unable to unlock the door again.
That time I was forced by elder siblings to smoke a cigarette, or down a tumbler full of Cinzano, or drink the vinegar from an empty pot of pickled onions.
Screaming in agony, tears streaming down my face, looking down at my scolded thighs as Mum rubbed butter on them, because my elder siblings decided to bathe the baby in hot water from the kettle.
Sitting on the sofa listening to my Mum yelling at my sister for something. Getting down from said sofa and crawling out to see what the commotion was, only to discover she was being told off for spilling staples everywhere and the baby might crawl through them. Crawling through staples. Being scarred for life.
The joy of having a cricket ball hurled directly at my head.
And finally, standing in front of a plate glass door as my brother picked up a broomstick and smacked it through the glass in an effort to hit me on the other side.
Fun times. Happy memories.
