When I tell stories, I fear retribution.

Stories are remembered imperfectly, and then refashioned in the retelling. Distilled until they are much more fragrant, more macabre, more vivid, vital and shocking than they ever were when they occurred.

Will I be found out?

Will I be hauled up before a court of old high-school friends, university roommates, my ex-mother-in-law, my sister and my sneering parents, all shocked by my cinematic reshaping of the highs and lows of my childhood, this cloth I’ve recut to shade new meanings?

And what about, looking forward, the future shame of my own children? When will they have their own version of a mum’s bare midriff moment, and feel desperately ashamed on my behalf? What will happen when they recognize those deadly scissorhands they possess, and turn them upon their closest and most dependable beloved?