Matilda’s grandmother often told her off. “You are forgetting yourself, my girl,” she would say, through lips pursed tight as though she had swallowed a lemon, although Matilda knew from asking around that this was an accident of birth and not of citrus.
Matilda could not fathom why her grandmother thought she had forgotten herself. She wished she could, especially her too-long arms and knobbly knees and fear of semolina, but she’d never been able to. She suspected her grandmother meant to say, “You are forgetting me”, but had become lost mid-sentence on account of her age, which was substantial.