This story left me with a really weird feeling.

I know there are examples of brothers and sisters throughout history having those kind of relationships but it really makes me shudder to think it might happen in this day and age (and yes, I am aware I sound like my mother!)

Apart from the whole "marrying your sister/brother" weirdness I wonder whether the two of them always somehow knew something was wrong.

The story brings up a number of questions for me:

1. why wouldn't the adoptive parents a) tell their child that they were adopted or, if they did b) that they had a brother/sister?
2. How did the pair of them find out that they were related?
3. Can they ever be brother and sister again, having done what (I assume) has been done?

At the end of the day, I do feel sorry for them, whoever they are. Having gone through 30-40 years of not knowing and then only to find out in the worst possible way.

Has anything caught your eye today?

I'm tired and I'm stressing. I'm worrying and I'm angry. I'm confused and I'm a little scared.

I'm sure I'll get over it though.

The problems continue.

Latest text from my mother: Have been out fighting for food for all the staff. John the day askari [secruity guard] had his house burnt down this morning so am trying to get him and family to a safer place. No food, no fuel and all pretty awful. Things will get worse tomorrow with planned march by millions on nairobi. Police on shoot to kill. Not looking good at all.

In other news, N, a friend and I are in the planning stages of a Cape to Cairo type expedition. Exactly the same except some minor details - we won't be going by train and we won't be going to Cairo. Anyone know a good Toyota dealer?

A belated Happy Christmas to all. Things are a little hectic at the moment. Am thinking about Kenya and trying not to worry too much.

The parents are safe but wisely staying in. Watch this space...

Normally quite a bit would have been drunk by the time we got round to it.

My mother and father would glance at each other, a twinkle in their eyes, small grin showing a slightly red tongue, tinged with red wine.

Out would come the cards and the cutlery. Space would be made on the table, all the unimportant things pushed to one side or taken to the kitchen. The spoons would be laid out reverently in the middle of the table. The cards would be dealt. All would be calm. And then...

... mayhem. Cards flying to the left, being picked up from the right. Watching, watching, waiting for a slight movement from the other players. Then suddenly everyone dives for the middle of the table, grabbing and grasping. Triumphantly you would brandish your spoon. A winner!

Until, at last, there was only one.

One of the things I remember about Christmas Eve in our house.

Today I am mostly:

• pushing the envelope (literally) as I stuff 300 christmas cards and nurse my paper cuts
• dreaming of Kenya and the lovely weather I've just left behind
• wondering whether I've got enough Christmas presents and whether I should go out and buy more on Saturday
• cursing my generosity - what made me invite 4 people round for Sunday lunch?
• collecting people's addresses so next year I can be one of those organised people I hate and send out a load of Christmas cards - it also makes me feel a tad grown up...
• procrastinating - can you tell?

Miss Cow had a semi-liquid lunch.

As such, am feeling a bit squiffy and so probably won't post until sober once more.

It's raining outside, the heating's finally fixed and for once, I have nothing to do.

A perfect for lying on the sofa, watching bad old films, cup of tea and duvet. I love days like these.