I’m a great believer in ‘natural justice’ or as some people know her, ‘Karma’.

I was the eldest grandchild in my father’s family, but on my mother’s side of the family, I was seriously stuck in the middle. Not the eldest grandchild – not even the eldest granddaughter.

Certainly not the favourite!

Because the thrill of the first-born missed me completely, I suppose it must have been a bit of a culture-shock to go from the ‘Adored first-born’ to the ‘meh… another one – and a Ginger to boot!’ mentality and be all-but ignored.

Too big to be ‘babied’, unlike my younger brother and sister, and too small to go out on my own or with my older cousins, I really was stuck. There’s little wonder that my active and curious mind would find lots of things to get me into a LOT of trouble.

‘Michelle! Get down!’, ‘Michelle! Don’t do that!’ ‘Michelle!’ Oh for goodness sake!

We didn’t have many toys at that grandmother’s – or rather, I didn’t. My two elder cousins lived with my grandmother because my aunt had died. Therefore, their toys were at my grandparents’ house. It was only on the rare occasion that we were allowed to play with them. I liked the books best, but it really was a rare treat to be able to get them out.

There were also a few battered toy cars. My brother commandeered them – even though I liked the Batman car, it could shoot matchsticks – I couldn’t play with them, either. ‘Not for girls.’

Frustration!

Two of my younger cousins visited our grandmother on Sundays and as we went on Saturdays, we hardly got to see them. The other cousin used to visit on Saturdays, so we all played together then. My cousin was always poorly. I remember that much. He’s a lovely lad – always was - but he couldn’t always play the rough and tumble with us.

I’m not saying I was the paragon of virtue – oh boy, FAR from it, but I did always like my cousin.

Sometimes, life is not fair and sometimes, kids just don’t understand.

My aunt explained what he was so poorly with once, but that’s not my story to tell. Suffice to say, he was always poorly and still is, but I tell you something, he’s the bravest person I know. He NEVER complains, he’s always cheerful and if he can help anyone, in any way, he’s right there, straight away, EVERY time.

My cousin had to have special medicine and because it was brightly-coloured (to make it more attractive, I guess) it was always a curiosity for me.

Yeah, basically, I was a brat! An entitled brat and I wanted what he was having because otherwise it just wasn’t FAIR!

My parents and both sets of grandparents claimed we were all treated the same – I’m here to tell you that was absolutely NOT true. In fact, it was a downright lie at times.

My cousin had to have this medicine – either just before, or just after food – so we all watched as he took the medicine. I wanted to know why he got some extra, brightly-coloured stuff and we didn’t.

One day, my mother decided to allow me some. Seriously! That poor kid, having to take THAT horrible stuff after every meal!

I didn’t understand why he had to take it, but I did accept it after that.

On one side, my father’s parents treated me much different to my brother and sister. I got a lot more treats etc - not sweeties, we all had an equal portion – but I was treated to horse-rides and stuff and I don’t recall my brother or sister receiving anything like I got.

On the other side, my mother’s parents, I was an absolute pariah.

My brother was the same age as my cousin and the two cousins that visited on Sundays (or thereabouts). My sister was much younger and hardly any trouble. I was a handful and mischievous, getting into everything, doing stuff I shouldn’t and generally making life difficult for all the adults.

If anything went wrong, if there was any trouble, the eyes always looked directly at me – seriously, for EVERYTHING!

My grandmother loathed me whistling. I was a happy kid, despite the trials and tribulations of being stuck in the middle… what can I say? I liked to whistle. My father's father was always whistling... maybe that's why I liked to, too.

I’m not sure if I shared this, but at the risk of being scolded by cheetah… here goes.

We were all sitting in the parlour (front room, television, sofa, chair, fireplace). My grandmother was asleep on the sofa, my mother was doing something (crochet perhaps). I sat in front of the fire, leaning against the sofa.

Suddenly, my grandmother woke up, sat up and slapped me round the face. She was a big, powerful woman and it bloody hurt, I can tell you!

My mother looked up and said, “What was that for? What did she do?”

“She was whistling. She woke me up!” my grandmother said, angrily.

“She wasn’t whistling,” my mother said.

“Oh, I must have dreamed it.”

That was it.

“Oh, I must have dreamed it.”

There was no ‘Sorry, I shouldn’t have hit you.’ No apology, admittance of wrong – nothing.

I don’t remember crying much (perhaps in temper or frustration, but hardly ever because of physical punishment) but I must have cried that time.

So I decided to conduct an experiment.

Sitting at the kitchen table one day, my cousin sat on a different side, I whispered to him, “Whistle for me…”

He set up a quiet little tune, sitting there, hunched over, trying not to laugh.

Of course I got told off for the whistling. My cousin was mortified but I’d proved a point.

“It’s not me whistling. You always blame me first. You never figure out who’s really to blame.”

Yeah, I know… too smart for my own good.

Images from Google