Above is a re-enactment of that fateful day, only a demented rabbit has stepped in to play the role of ‘insane, murderous pussy’
As an introductory post, I would like to share with you my biggest childhood trauma. It will help us get to know one another, because nothing says ‘friendship’ like an emotional breakdown.
Our tale begins, dear reader, one Christmas when I was quite small. My grandmother used to collect rescue cats: fat ones no one wanted, sadistic fur-balls who bit anything that moved, that one alarming creature that sat and stared at you for hours on end. You knew it was planning your demise. You knew.
Boxing Day came. The wrapping paper had been cleaned up, new toys were being played with, the adults smelt like sherry and kept falling asleep after every meal. A Christmas tree, with its twinkling lights and glittering baubles, sat in the hallway. My sibling and I had decorated it (though only on one side, as our arms could stretch no further) and it leaned precariously to the left, weighed down by our failure.
With small, plump hands I reached towards one branch for a little chocolate bell, ones my grandmother had bought for us all. I had it in my grasp, the tinfoil cold against my palm. I could almost taste it. Then the creature pounced. It was a shadow drenched in fury, a fuzzy ball with horror and destruction on its mind. It went for the face.
I began screaming and groped my way into the living room with a crazed feline attached to my skull, like Phantom of the Opera, one eye covered, only less dashing and more flea-bitten. It was a dark time, purely because I could not see. From that day forth, every December has been associated with that one incident. Never trust a Christmas tree, for within its depths is a portal to Hell that could spit out Satan’s worst disciples. I would know, I met one.
And there you have it. I feel we’ve bonded.
However, as a proper introduction, I am Sophie. I write romantic, action-packed fiction with ballsy heroines and brooding men. I like pie, I like dogs, I like good books and hummus (not together, as books dipped in hummus is a bad move). And, I have to confess, I don’t mind cats. Christmas trees though, they’re dodgy.
Do please share your own childhood traumas, let’s get it all out in blog-format. It’s cheaper than therapy, trust me.