Every year around about now, my parents can be found on board a cruise ship somewhere in the Caribbean.
After 40 years of graft, scrimping and saving to give me and my siblings the best possible start in life, they treat themselves once a year to a fortnight of luxury, and I very generously and altruistically, look after the house and hound.
To say thank you for this act of kindness, my mum comes into my room on the night before they leave.
“I got you something to say thank you for looking after Molly for us.” She presents me with a box of chocolates. Best day ever.
“Aw, mum! You didn’t have to do that, Molly is my dog too. I’m happy to do it!” My subconscious chimes in: What are you doing, fool!? Don’t let her take the chocolate away!?!
“I know, I know, but it’s just something to say we appreciate it anyway.” Phew. “Only, there’s been a bit of a problem…”
“…yes, well. You see, the thing is…I started eating them.” Of course you did.
And lo and behold, upon opening the box, I found it to be true. Because she put the empty bloody wrappers back in the bloody box.
She’s a piranha when it comes to chocolate, my mother. She can’t help herself. And that’s how I know we are definitely related.