Victoria Clare Cotton is my little sister. I have mentioned her many times in this blog, but now I shall devote this entire post to her. She is 23 this year. I am just 24. So close and yet so different.
So we all know what I look like.
- dirty blonde/rich mouse fine hair
- blue eyes
- petite in all respects
- not like Linda Barker
Vic is my opposite.
- brown curly wurly thick fuck-off hair
- brown eyes and glasses
- 6 foot
- also not like Linda Barker
I studied French at university. I loved English and drama and all things artsy at school* and the thought of an equation drove me to tears. Many tears. I would even go so far as to say that I am numerically dyslexic. Numexic.
Victoria is studying finance, accounting and management. She loves spreadsheets. This is not my opinion of her. We had a mini dinner party last night and she actually said the words 'I love spreadsheets'. I recall one time she said that the only books she likes to read are textbooks. She had to write an essay the other day and went to my mum in a tiz. She didn't know how to express herself. My mum said 'Don't panic, tell me what you're trying to say and I'll help you construct a sentence'. Victoria proceeded to give her a mathematical formula. My mum then got into a tiz and had to go and calm down with a biscuit.** The moral of this story is that Victoria reckons she can only express herself in numbers. This makes me feel sick.
We don't always see eye to eye (actually we don't ever see eye to eye, because her boobs are at my eye level) but we usually get on like a house on fire despite our differences.
I'm not sure why we are so different. We have exactly the same parentals. Mummy C (or Milf as my guy friends affectionately call her) has my blue eyes but has dark dark hair.*** Daddy C (affectionately Big D by aforementioned friends) has Vic's brown eyes and no hair.
Mix us all together and we could rule the world.
Big D (or daddy as I call him) used to have headphones in place of hair.
Genes eh. Recessive and dominant. That's all I remember from biology.
That and (to the tune of Frere Jacques - a fab way to remember GCSE science)...
The ray of light is refracted by the cornea
The ray of light is then
Further refractedbythelens
To create a clear image
On the retina
On the retina. On the retina.
(Science was also not my strong point.)
Anyway, moving on...
So Victoria used to look like Deidre Barlow when we were little. She had to wear those unfortunate NHS jam jar bottom glasses and she had a bit of a perm. Fortunately for her, she has blossomed into a grade A babe.
* Except actual art. I was godawful at that. One time in year 7 we had to do a storyboard about the day in the life of a stamp. My story was very accomplished if I do say so myself. The stamp was recycled into a sick bag on an aeroplane and then flew out of the window and then a dog ate the paper and then the stamp ended up in a pile of dog dirt. Highly amusing and creative. This was not the opinion of the art teacher. I got a D. (yeah, me. a D) And she wrote 'scruffy drawings and was this entirely necessary?'. When all's said and done, better to have a great story with dodgy illustrations than some boring cutesy picture of a stamp who has a dreadfully dull day. Clearly an attempt to try and stifle our imaginations. (Still haven't got over it obviously.)
** Classic Mummy Cotton.
*** One time when I was very little and my friend's mum was talking about my mum, I volunteered the information that 'mummy's hair is ma-hojany' (not a mispelling, that is how I pronounced it). Teach her to leave bottles of dye lying around. Some of my mum's pupils asked her why her hair had orange stripes. Another friend recently compared my mum to Mary Portas. I haven't told her yet. She would not appreciate it. Generally, I would say hair is a family failing.
**** To be said in a broad Manchester accent.
NB the title of this post is irrelevant. But I felt I had to get some maths in, and last night after a few glasses of wine, I thought it was particularly clever. In the broad light of day, it is neither clever nor relevant.
Sorry about that.
So we all know what I look like.
- dirty blonde/rich mouse fine hair
- blue eyes
- petite in all respects
- not like Linda Barker
Vic is my opposite.
- brown curly wurly thick fuck-off hair
- brown eyes and glasses
- 6 foot
- also not like Linda Barker
I studied French at university. I loved English and drama and all things artsy at school* and the thought of an equation drove me to tears. Many tears. I would even go so far as to say that I am numerically dyslexic. Numexic.
Victoria is studying finance, accounting and management. She loves spreadsheets. This is not my opinion of her. We had a mini dinner party last night and she actually said the words 'I love spreadsheets'. I recall one time she said that the only books she likes to read are textbooks. She had to write an essay the other day and went to my mum in a tiz. She didn't know how to express herself. My mum said 'Don't panic, tell me what you're trying to say and I'll help you construct a sentence'. Victoria proceeded to give her a mathematical formula. My mum then got into a tiz and had to go and calm down with a biscuit.** The moral of this story is that Victoria reckons she can only express herself in numbers. This makes me feel sick.
We don't always see eye to eye (actually we don't ever see eye to eye, because her boobs are at my eye level) but we usually get on like a house on fire despite our differences.
I'm not sure why we are so different. We have exactly the same parentals. Mummy C (or Milf as my guy friends affectionately call her) has my blue eyes but has dark dark hair.*** Daddy C (affectionately Big D by aforementioned friends) has Vic's brown eyes and no hair.
Mix us all together and we could rule the world.
Big D (or daddy as I call him) used to have headphones in place of hair.
Genes eh. Recessive and dominant. That's all I remember from biology.
That and (to the tune of Frere Jacques - a fab way to remember GCSE science)...
The ray of light is refracted by the cornea
The ray of light is then
Further refractedbythelens
To create a clear image
On the retina
On the retina. On the retina.
(Science was also not my strong point.)
Anyway, moving on...
So Victoria used to look like Deidre Barlow when we were little. She had to wear those unfortunate NHS jam jar bottom glasses and she had a bit of a perm. Fortunately for her, she has blossomed into a grade A babe.
 |
I'm far left and she is far right. At least we share the same beautiful smile.
We used to drive down to France every year in the car. A tedious journey. One year, we drove to Italy. We decided to make a club (If clubs can consist of two) called the Musical Tomatoes. She was 'mus' and I was 'ical'. Much to her irritation. I'm not sure what the club did. It was probably a time passer. One thing we did do in the car was a lot of singing. We sang the tune from the Disney version of Robin Hood. But I only let her sing it to 'la' and I was allowed to do ALL of the letters and words.
Grade A bitch. Some might have said I was a bully.
Some might also say that Miss Butter-Wouldn't-Melt was a nasty piece of work at times. When Vic was about 6, the headteacher (a nun) brought my mum into school. A pupil in the year above me at school, and so a whole 3 years older than Victoria, had complained that Vic had told her: 'Shut your gob'.
'Obviously, Mrs Cotton', said Sister Catherine, 'I know Victoria would never have said such a thing, there must have been some sort of misunderstanding.'
Mummy C readily agreed. Vic readily denied.
And so she was completely let off the hook and the incident was forgotten.
We found out years later that Vic had indeed told that girl to shut her gob.
Similarly I knocked a computer off a desk at school, aged 6. We were told we all had to stay behind after school until somebody stepped forward as the guilty party. I never did. They let us go home.
We both got away with it.
There is a moral to this story.
The Cotton girls are never culpable as nobody believes we are capable of being anything other than angelic.
More fool them.
This post is really a tribute to Victoria in a series of unrelated stories.
Here is a final snippet:
Every year we do a quiz at Christmas. One year, Victoria decided she wanted to be quizmaster. She can't have been much more than 4.
Now I think this anecdote sums up Victoria - an enigma, a mathematician, a philosopher perhaps?
The first question was this,
'How hard is a magazine?'
We were baffled. We still ponder the answer to this day.
I shall leave you to muse upon it. Whilst looking at some photos of Victarria.****
My parents learnt from that day forward, that they had a genius on their hands.
She will work in the City.
She will be successful.
She will bring them the money when they are old and grey.
I will be a penniless writer.
And take some of said money.
I am her sister, after all.
|
My graduation. I had heels on. She was still taller than me.
The day we explained to some Americans what chavs were.
This is not an accurate representation of our characters.
5 inch heels and still a short arse in comparison
Sisterly love (although actually in a lot of photographs we have at home, Victoria is in the shadows / I am pushing her into the background so that I can have the limelight)
* Except actual art. I was godawful at that. One time in year 7 we had to do a storyboard about the day in the life of a stamp. My story was very accomplished if I do say so myself. The stamp was recycled into a sick bag on an aeroplane and then flew out of the window and then a dog ate the paper and then the stamp ended up in a pile of dog dirt. Highly amusing and creative. This was not the opinion of the art teacher. I got a D. (yeah, me. a D) And she wrote 'scruffy drawings and was this entirely necessary?'. When all's said and done, better to have a great story with dodgy illustrations than some boring cutesy picture of a stamp who has a dreadfully dull day. Clearly an attempt to try and stifle our imaginations. (Still haven't got over it obviously.)
** Classic Mummy Cotton.
*** One time when I was very little and my friend's mum was talking about my mum, I volunteered the information that 'mummy's hair is ma-hojany' (not a mispelling, that is how I pronounced it). Teach her to leave bottles of dye lying around. Some of my mum's pupils asked her why her hair had orange stripes. Another friend recently compared my mum to Mary Portas. I haven't told her yet. She would not appreciate it. Generally, I would say hair is a family failing.
**** To be said in a broad Manchester accent.
NB the title of this post is irrelevant. But I felt I had to get some maths in, and last night after a few glasses of wine, I thought it was particularly clever. In the broad light of day, it is neither clever nor relevant.
Sorry about that.
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