Dear sixteen-year-old me...

I came across this site/book through a Jonathan Ross tweet about it.

http://www.dearmebooks.com
So, thought I'd have a go at writing a letter to my sixteen-year-old self and just see what came out. I was hoping for wit, something a bit light and silly... but got this instead and now have sore eyes, lol.

Sandy,

Your mam loves you. She's also hugely proud of you. She just can't tell you those things, cuz her mam never told her those things either. Her mam wasn't the lovely, cheery, Irish woman you imagine her to be. Your mam's mam was a nasty, grumpy, cold, woman. The fact that your mam is so warm and so loved is a credit to her heart and spirit. So, break the cycle now. Go into the kitchen, where she's probably sieving home-made soup especially for you, cuz you don't like the lumps. (You'll like the lumps in later life AND you'll also love broccoli and cauliflower! Trust me). So, go in there now, grab her, turn her around and tell her you love her. Then, just stand still and hold her and let that strange awkwardness that exists between you melt.

Y'see, you don't know this, but you'll only have her for another ten years (only eight really, cuz for two of those years, you'll live in America!!! Again, you just have to trust me on this). So, if you don't do this small act now, you'll grieve for all those similarly lost moments... FOR... EVER. You'll sit, in what would've been her 80th year, your 40th, and you'll sob about those lost moments as you type a letter to your sixteen-year-old self, and the regret will feel as heavy then as the guilt and grief will when she dies. Go hug your mam... now!

PS: Don't go to Spain on holiday with Kirstie... EVER!

PPS: You're NOT ugly.