DNA

is a strange thing. Or do I mean it's manifestation? 23 pairs of chromosomes handed down through generations, with limited malleability to the environment. Parents. Children. Siblings. The brat and I look at each other, oncoming apoplectic fit looming on her indignant face, resignation writ on mine as I speculate yet again, which one of us was adopted. This time, it's my desire to be Brittney Spears as evidenced by inappropriate underwear rendered visible by low riding jeans when leaning forward. Cardigan girl is not pleased. She insists I buy a charcoal grey top. Charcoal grey. That's not a colour! That's what you use to do the sketch, rim your eyes, crank up the barbeque with. I buy mustard. She calls it yellow. She buys a grey sweater. All she needs is a pipe and slippers and you'll never miss grandpa. She grudgingly admits charcoal grey does nothing for me. Back to Soho with our receipts. Another day - being silly, sharing thoughts, feeding our faces, laughing together, debating issues, arguing ideas, bitching about sundry, spewing venom, getting on each others nerves, enjoying each other. Poles apart. Instant connection. Diametric opposites. Indistinguishable thought. Day. Night. Or was that just the earth rotating? She knows me as few people do. She loves me as few people can. That ruthless little git with the cheekbones, crooked nose and pastel complex. Think I'll keep her.