II. Her nostalgia, the cabinet of treasured memories carried around all the time, getting heavier with time but never let go of to lighten the load. Unlike her, I haven't yet found the words for mine. If I did I would also habitually repeat the same anecdotes.
III. My grandfather's ability to drive everyone into a frenzy but without real reason. Except he could be excused for being senile. I'm just trouble.
IV. My aunt's everlasting and unshakable state of adolescence and love of colourful oddities.
V. My mother's adherence to etiquette and belief in the importance of politeness in manners of speaking and proper greeting. But although I say, 'How do you do?' with a firm handshake, know the origin of the word 'posh' and loathe rudeness, when I am not painstakingly careful to arrive early lest I risk being late, I am entirely absent and unconscious, pills dissolving on my to-whom-it-may-concern-sir-esquire-madam-please-thankyou-ever-so-kind tongue. When I am anxious my elbows are on the table and everywhere else and I spill and when I chew it's all wrong because it's a dinner table.
VI. My mother’s mischief- she outgrew it and forgot it.
VII. My father’s mischief- blatant self-destructive misbehaviour.
VIII. My father's nose- his would be ruined and twice rebuilt, mine remains perfectly intact.
IX. My father's obsessive nature.
X. My father's roller-coaster mind, and impulse to at once press the button to blow it all up.
XI. My mother's hatred of boredom and stupidity.