Or, Brobdingnag or Lilliput?
This piece is written with my psychotherapy hat on. Or psychotherapy head on, because I have yet to come across sentient clothes. It reflects many experiences I’ve witnessed, heard or been a part of. (Grammar Nazis, I defy your stifling behests!)
When I was four, I decided I couldn’t draw. It was a wet Sunday after lunch. Dad was having a kip so we had to be quiet. Mum was ironing (hankies! socks! But that’s another story). My sister said, ‘Mum, I’m bored. What can I do?’ Mum said, ‘Draw something.’ ‘What shall we draw?’ I cried, in the voice of a 1950s girl in white ankle socks, because I didn’t want to miss out. ‘A house,’ said Mum. ‘You can both draw me a nice house.’
So we did. Mine looked like a little square with a wonky roof and scribbles of smoke coming out of the chimney. Its windows were littler squares in the corners, with hair-bow curtains. Janet’s was a Disney castle.