Andrew Collins was born 37 years ago. His parents never split up; in fact they rarely exchanged a cross word. No-one abused him. Nobody died. He got on well with his brother and sister and none of his friends drowned in a canal. He has never stayed overnight in a hospital and has no emotional scars from his upbringing, except a slight lingering resentment that Anita Barker Andrew Collins was born 37 years ago. His parents never split up; in fact they rarely exchanged a cross word. No-one abused him. Nobody died. He got on well with his brother and sister and none of his friends drowned in a canal. He has never stayed overnight in a hospital and has no emotional scars from his upbringing, except a slight lingering resentment that Anita Barker once mocked his bike. This is a jealous memoir written by someone who occasionally wishes life had dealt him a few more juicy marketable blows. Andrew delves back into his first 18 years in search of something— anything—that might have left him deeply and irreparably damaged. With tales of bikes, television, sweets, good health, domestic harmony and happy holidays, Andrew aims to bring a little hope to all those out there living with the emotional after-effects of a really nice childhood.