To the person that taught me the A to Z of swear words sat in a tree house aged seven- a repertoire for which I shall be eternally grateful.

You make me hoot with laughter, holler in anger and snort in public at tweets and texts. Even with that ridiculous hat you’ve been sporting lately (Burglar Chic simply has to go), I am just the teeniest weeniest bit proud to call you my big brother.

May your insurpassable wit and “forward” choice of clothing fodder have me flummoxed for yet another year.

Happy Birthday D! Xx

P.s To point out the- hopefully- patently obvious, this is an intentionally-cheesy photo.


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