Going away to a secluded part of the Norfolk countryside for a week, with 12 members of your family, ranging from in age from nine to 90, may strike fear into the hearts of most normal folk. And yet, my family has insisted on making this a sadistic tradition for the past three years.
I’m currently writing this amidst a storm of testosterone over a heated game of Risk. Family reputation is on the line here. And I find myself reluctantly pulled into conversations about football, as the only younger woman in a family of men: 3 male cousins, 2 brothers, and me. In the...
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