My Mother’s family can be divided into two distinct groups. There’s her immediate family – the mad-children-of-the-bog and then there are her extended family – the posh-ones.
Sometimes they invite us to their posh parties and we all sheepishly attend. We wear our good-clothes, speak when spoken too, avoid sugar or in fact anything that might make us a little unruly.
One of my cousins is a particularly mad-child. In fact he is so mad that at my eighteenth birthday he released a bucket of wild frogs all-over my friends.
He is so wild that he tamed our devil-cat, by biting its tail, at two years old and he is so unruly that at four he rolled our fridge into a river.
So he’s the best kind of child really. Only you can’t give him sugar. Any sugar is too much sugar.
So we were at one of the posh parties when a posh relative gave him a piece of chocolate. We giggled behind our hands when she ignored our warning. She would see.
And she did.
Fast forward half an hour and our posh relative was demanding my grandmother remove her naked grandson from a tree. My granny, who had also presumably had some sugar, thought this was hilarious and decided instead to take a picture.