“I’m telling mother!!” screamed Alice, in the sort of of shaky, anguished convulsion one has when one has emotions they don’t know where to put.

But I carried on. I opened another tin and, one by one, threw each precious olive over the edge of the ravine.

Alice had worked hard for these olives. I didn’t care. I resented her for being better than me. In every way. How could she be better than me in every way? It didn’t make sense. Surely there would be something…

I think that’s how she operates. I think she’s fuelled by jealousy, and it’s always her move. She sees me getting good at something, getting interested in something, and she seizes it, fast-tracks her skills by observing my trajectory, and does it better than me.

I throw her an uncaring grin. “Mother is dead.” I say this every time. One day it’ll be true.