I still hate my sister.
As a seven-year-old, I liked school, but I liked getting out of school even more. My sister was five at the time so my parents would pick us both up and walk us both home, but my brother walked home on his own, being older than us.
So, as usual, one day, when the bell rings, I go running around to the yard where we got picked up (without my skirt or knickers falling down due to not actually fitting me, or on one memorable occasion, both). No dad, no sister. I scan the crowds of parents leaving but nothing.
Fair enough, think I, my dad will just be a minute late and my sister's class won't have got out yet.
So I wait.
And wait.
Parents disperse and the stream of children running out from behind me grows thin. No dad. No sister. And being a soft child, I start to cry. What could have happened? Has my dad disappeared off the face of the earth? Did reality shift during story time and in actual fact I never had a dad to begin with? Am I ever going to go home and have my tea?
(I read far too many books as a child.)
A teacher comes out to ask why I'm still here. In between sobs, I explain, and she takes me inside and gives me a cup of juice and a tissue.
20 minutes later, my dad comes running into the school, red-faced and out of breath. What on earth could have happened? Did he get stuck in traffic somewhere? Was a relative ill?
No.
He'd been early, picked my sister up, walked home, given her and my brother their tea, and been quite pleased with himself until my sister asked 'Dad, where's indecisivephotogirl?'

Even after seven years of my life, my dad still managed to forget I existed.
Well over 10 years later, I'm still pissed off at this. He claims to not remember this, so I remind him of it at every suitable juncture.

(I should point out that my dad is actually lovely, just a bit...forgetful.)
(and now for someone completely different, Thu 16 Aug 2007, 13:58, Reply)