I remember I once -out of sheer stubbornness- sat on the roof. I was eight or nine years old and I climbed out of the attic window because I didn’t want to eat Chicory. I loathed Chicory.
My mum stood in the back garden, wearing her apron and waving a ladle at me as if to cast a 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.
She didn’t keep her promise.
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