Write About Memories Underfoot:

I remember, when we were small enough to hide beneath the shed, she did it then, too. Never any proof, of course, except the malice in her eyes, hidden from parents' view. But I knew it was her. We all did, really, but the ever loyal parents preferred to believe that I was 'mistaken' than their pride and joy less than angelic.

It's not about the things, it never was, though spending 4 hours trying to find your clean underwear, whilst you're watched in half amusement from the other bed in the holiday-cottage room, finding your new CD, caseless and scratched beyond functioning, or trying to explain why you can't lend a much-discussed comic to your best friend, is, shall we say, annoying. No, it's not about the things. It's the fact that something, some apathy, some pure disrespectful hatred, makes her think that it's alright. It doesn't matter, because she'll crawl back to me anyway; I'm great.

Thing is, I always do.