I am seven, Cousin Julie is five. We come back from a trip to the Cowley Centre shopping precinct to Nan-next-door's house to have glasses of milk and malted milk biscuits; I have a passion for the biscuit barrel because it has a 'secret' compartment containing a lumpy bag. I am sure the lumpy bag contains something delicious, but Nan says it is poisonous not to eat it. I try and give it a sly lick at least once a week as I am not a trusting child.
Nan-next-door hugs us both and says fondly: ' I can quite imagine you when you are all grown up - Julie will be the beauty of the family and Renka, you can be...' she pauses '...the brains'.
I'm not sure I like this distribution of attributes so I wait for Nan-next-door to go out of the room, push Julie onto the floor and crack her head against the fridge several times for good measure.