I haven’t told you a lame/embarrassing story from my childhood lately (don’t get your hopes up):
My cousins and I started this book when we were younger, a “communication journal”, that we used to write notes to each other while driving around in our grandpa’s car. The cover’s decorated with magazine clippings that spell out our names (you know, like that creepy anonymous person on CSI who’s attempting blackmail an heiress) and phrases like “girlz rule” and “cousins foreva” that really make you judge your pre-adolescent self. It’s filled with near illegible diary entries (apologising for the handwriting because of the car) and statements that we’re picking up either a) Fish and Chips or b) Chinese with grandpa. And also a continuing saga about my cousin’s pet guinea pigs, named Bruno and Tom, that ended with the startling revelation that Tom was pregnant (and from there on his name never really fit).
Also, my aunt cousin and I went to pick up my grandpa from hospital today after a small operation, and I couldn’t help but notice the hand sanitiser EVERYWHERE I looked. I felt like I’d stepped in to a Purell infomercial.