The Shiniest Hippopotamus That I Have Ever Seen

Siobhan Redmond

There's only one thing I do regularly that I'm sure my parents would approve of: I look up new words in the dictionary. Throughout my childhood, as soon as I'd say, "What does this word mean?" I'd be told to find out for myself. Words are important to my family - as things of beauty, weapons of choice and tools for telling a story. My parents grew up in households where everyone told stories to and about everyone else and I grew up surrounded by that tradition.

In fact I'm still surrounded by it: my bedroom is in the roof, and in the eaves on either side of my bed are boxes packed with diaries, stories, poems and letters written by my parents, my granny and my aunts. Some boxes have lain unopened for many years. As people died, as people will do, my sister Grainne and I pack up what seems personal and promise ourselves to look at it later. It's sore reading and yet impossible to dispose of. It's become buried treasure - part of me like bones. ... (continues)