might have to cause her serious harm for the longevity of future meadow running generations. I know this is cruel but I wouldn’t give her a blade of grass, not even if she was on fire. If she was on fire, I’d probably just give her more fire. For the record we can’t choose family but we can choose violence to relieve us of our problems. I’ve asked at least three history teachers and they say it’s so true it can’t be anything other than a fact. I like sticking to facts more than anything else. They are more adhesive than fiction but not as effective as memoir, telling your life something like back to front or slightly reversed. Lies are for invading other countries and badger sets that aren’t yours to begin with. My stepmother was not a badger and she knew it, we reminded her of it every time she came with her claws that were of a shape utterly different to ours. Earthworms and wills aside, it can be difficult to think of death without money and burrowing lizards, legless in a pursuit of decay; her hands were not touching our skin or anything that was subject to decomposition. Not that she’d done a hard day’s work in her life, despite wrongly believing she ‘affected so many’ with her oeuvre of moving through the decades as a lacklustre sourpuss with no discernible talent or friends. You think me cruel and I am, somewhat. It was easy enough, homicide often is, when your back’s against the wall and your inheritance is on a metallic pole. I lured the sidecar to an open cupboard by waggling a freshly deboned fillet of salmon, it hadn’t been marinated as extras don’t tend to like or choose decadence. The sidecar was talking about a dolphin den, whatever one of those were, and had horrible eye makeup on. It looked as it had been attacked by a blender and not in a good way. I threw the salmon, which on retrospect may have had a bone or two near the foot, tail or head and shouted: ‘Here kitty kitty
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