Facing The Fears

Let me start by telling you a story about fears…

It’s nineteen-ninety something and my sister and I are between 5 and 10 years old. We’re in France with our mum and dad, in the days before the euro.¬†We’re walking down a busy French high street in Calais. It’s probably the size of Oxford Street. My mum is the official “bag wearer”. “The Bag” is this important bag that contained everything from francs (remember those?) to passports, our boarding tickets for the ferry, and our sweets. It. Had. EVERYTHING. in it.

Whilst waking down said high street; my mum, who at this point was (and still is) my absolute hero (I was a mummy’s girl, my sister; a daddy’s girl), starts screaming. The bag, which was this gastly white bag with gigantic flowers on it, had attracted an almighty butterfly. A butterfly that would have given batman a run for his money.

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