Chicory

I remember I that I once as a child -out of sheer stubbornness- sat on the roof. I was eight or nine years old I think and I climbed out of the attic window because I didn’t want to eat Chicory. I loathed Chicory (I still do by the way).

My mum stood in the back garden, wearing her apron and waving a large ladle at me as if to cast a bad spell on me and she shouted frantically to me come down immediately but I didn’t, not before I made her promise not to smack me anyway.

She didn’t keep her promise.

The house where I grew up

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