Telling Tails

I had an incredibly lazy day yesterday. I didn’t actually change out of my pyjamas – it’s a long time since I last spent an entire day lounging around and occasionally taking a break from nothingness in order to have a doze.

 Not that it’s helped, as it’s currently 3am and I feel like it’s maybe approaching lunch time or something.

 Anyway, such a day provides ample opportunity for predictably sensible conversation with The Sister, whose life continues to enthrall me. “I don’t know what this little bumpy thing on my hand is,” I was musing thoughtfully, rubbing the mark in question as we lay lazily draped over the sofas, regretting the quantity of food we had just consumed. “It’s been there all my life, and I still haven’t identified its purpose.”

Sister rearranged her cushions and wriggled around a bit. “Birth mark, probably,” she said with a dismissive yawn. “I’ve told a vast number of people that I was born with a tail, actually.”

“Pardon?” I asked, unable to form any other response.

“A little wiggly piggy tail,” she elaborated.

“You told people you were born with a tail,” I echoed, just for clarification.

She shrugged. “I was having a conversation about birth marks with some friends once, and I told them I was born with a tail, which I had to have surgically removed. I told them it was a very sensitive issue, and that I didn’t want anyone else to know.”

“Err, why?” I asked incredulously. She grinned lazily. “Why not?”

Indeed. So it turns out that the whole thing ended up spiralling out of control, and an alarming number of people now believe, and also have great sympathy for, the generally acknowledged fact that my little sister is part human, part piglet.

Sometimes I think I really need to get out there and start meeting less frightening people.