Something rather worrying occurred in my family six years ago. My mother – my calm, middle-class, softly spoken mother – took up kicking ass as a hobby.
Growing up, my sisters had 21 facial piercings between them. While they tattooed their ankles, I spent every Saturday playing violin in the local orchestra. When they invested in dreadlocks, I invested in a maths degree. When my bro developed a love for art house film-making, I developed a love for honey & marmite sandwiches. While they had their fingers on the pulse, my finger was firmly stuck to the remote control for a Deep Space Nine episode marathon.
My parents were my one solace. I could safely look at them and fool myself into thinking that by comparison I was vaguely cool.
Then my dad grew his hair long and my mum joined a club where people fly through the air for fun. My sandwich-making skills hardly shine in comparison. How very dare they.
Spindlespace 