Join me as we cast our minds back to the early 90s when I was just a mere baby with out of proportion eyes and no hair.
My parents like to tell an endearing story about how they would lovingly swaddle me in blankets only to have me rip my way out of them, shrieking. Or the time that the doctor tried to hold me when I was a few hours old and I screamed so loudly that he said “Hmm. Prickly by name, prickly by nature”.
Oh how we laughed.
I think everyone thought (or hoped) that this was an endearing quirk that I would one day grow out of. But no, at 25 I am still living up to my namesake and I still fight daily with the urge to tell people to get the fuck out of my personal space.
I thought the British were meant to be stoic and non-demonstrative. So why is it that within seconds of meeting any new person, they’re reaching towards me for a kiss or a handshake or – the horror – a hug.
I am not a horrible, people-hating monster – I just want you to stop touching me. Not everything needs to be celebrated with an over the top display of affection. What happened to a nice handshake? Or a wave?
And it’s not just that I don’t like people hugging me. I am also absolutely terrible at hugging other people. I dread when other people tell me bad news because social etiquette dictates that I should hug them and then we get stuck in a situation like this:
And guess what? Dogs hate hugs too. Every time you hug your dog, you’re making it sad. Next time you feel like giving someone a hug, think of the puppies and how sad they are in your horrid, sweaty embrace.