Growing up Greek means growing up with cousins. Lots of them. I don’t have any brothers but with the hoard of hooligans I grew up with, I never missed out on the obligatory rite of childhood torture, for example:
I spent a lot of time with my slightly older cousins Demetri and Georgie, and slightly younger cousin Barbara. Their house had a long corridor ideal for races. The boys and I would take our marks at the one end and race towards their parents’ bedroom on the other end. I must have been about five at the time and despite my girlie appearance with hair down to my waist, I was always up for roughing it with boys.
“On your marks…”
One cousin on either side of me…
”Get set…”
I tensed my legs, ready to shoot off in a blaze, my eyes on the finishing line…
“Go!!”
I shoot off only to feel a prickly pain at the back of my head. I slide to the middle of the corridor and turn back to see two little brats, still at the starting position, grinning and holding tufts of hair, MY hair, in their hands.
This same corridor would also be the scene of the ultimate act of sibling torture. This time, between the boys. Tune in on Wednesday to find out why little boys should never be left alone with cotton.
hey...at least you only had this once every so often....what am i supposed to say that i lived with them!!!!!!!! All my life!!!
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