When my father was seven, he dug up a dead body.
But when he was five, he also stole some cigarettes from his father, who blamed the hired hand, who was fired on the spot. And my dad never said a word about it.
This is the gene pool from which I spring. Which is why, I would imagine, I took the family car for a joyride (which ended in an unfortunate crash) when I was four and set ten acres ablaze when I was five. I stole my first cigarette when I was eight, but, fortunately, nobody lost his livelihood as a result. However, when I was five I did leave my "boyfriend" lying on a cold rock after he took a nasty 20-foot fall from a bluff we weren't supposed to be climbing. I thought he was dead. I simply walked home, ate my supper, went to bed, and hoped he would be on the bus the next morning. He was. Phew.
Graverobbing, thieving, lying, joyriding arsonists. What a lovely family crest I could hang on my wall.
C'mon, then, make me feel better. What's in your closet?