At five years old, I gave one of my Trolls a particularly striking Mohawk haircut. Hairdresser of the Year, I was not – so I couldn’t wait for his radiant pink locks to grow back. Much to my horror and disappointment, they never did.
Dear 12 year old me, I have some good news and some not-so good news about the next 17 years. Where shall I begin?
Dear Jessica, I was happy to learn in your last letter that your Queen says you can have Halloween in England and wear costumes and everything! Is that why Elton John went on The Muppet Show dressed like a space princess?
Meet my big brother – Chris. When I was seven years old – he decapitated my Tiny Tears doll. One day I might find it in my heart to forgive him.
Someone really ought to learn from my mistakes, so please consider the following life lessons my gift to you. You’re welcome.
Dear Mum and Dad, Methinks I owe you something of an apology for the last 29 years.
It turns out that multicoloured glitter is an unsatisfactory substitute for fairy dust; even if next door’s Saint Bernard is there to break your fall.
We embarked on a top secret mission to make him happier than Mr Happy, in his happy shoes, eating happy cake, dosed up on happy pills, riding a happy hippo, on a particularly happy day in Happyville.
Dear Jessica, My Barbie likes Outsider Art. She is a collector of fine things like giraffe drawings, gold stuff, lacey underwear and my mom’s earrings. She also has shiny pink pants.
I had one major problem growing up and his name was Oliver. I was utterly convinced that as my big brother, he was put on this Earth solely to make me look bad.