Episode 78 – Pedestals, Ghosts, and the Tattler-in-Chief..

Pedestals, Ghosts, and the Tattler-in-Chief: An Ode to Fanny McFox…

You know, it’s funny the things you don’t see until you’ve lived long enough to grow your own collection of scars. How did I never see through her? The infamous Fanny McFox, tattler, gatekeeper, ghoster supreme.

Back when I was a teenager, I was waging wars against curfews and conformity, while she was waging a campaign of Mammy Reports.
‘Mammy – Mae’s dying her hair in the bathtub.’
‘Mammy – Mae’s late.’
‘Mammy – Mae’s on the phone again.’

It was like living with a tiny, smug surveillance drone in a Laura Ashley nightdress.

And you know what? I thought that was just what sisters did. I thought it was normal. Thought maybe it was some twisted form of sibling affection. ‘If she’s telling on me, at least she’s thinking about me,’ right? God help the trauma response logic.

Fast forward a couple of decades and here she is: sitting high atop her hand-carved pedestal, draped in the moral superiority of someone who’s never once admitted they’ve royally messed up, ghosting me like the Holy Ghost himself handed her a Get Out of Sisterhood Free card.

I mean, what kind of person judges from on high while pretending you don’t exist? If you’re gonna hate me, at least have the spine to do it out loud. Say it with your chest, Fanny.

I used to joke we should’ve named her Vatican Vicky for the amount of invisible moral authority she throws around, blessing and banishing as it suits her narrative.

But here’s the kicker: the older you get, the clearer the pattern becomes. Some people were never for you. Not even when you shared bubble baths and biscuits. Not even when you called them your best friend at six. They were studying you. Counting your sins. Filing them away for later.

And now? Well now she’s a ghost. Not the cool, rattling-chains kind. The petty, passive-aggressive kind that haunts you by absence, by silence, by refusal to acknowledge your existence unless it serves her story-line.

And you know what? I’m okay with that. I’ve finally realized you don’t need everyone to love you. Hell, you don’t even need everyone to like you. You just need to know who’d sell you out in the last days of Rome.

Spoiler alert: Fanny’s got a stall at the market.

Lesson of the Day:

Not everyone sitting at your table is breaking bread with you – some are keeping a tally of your crumbs. And that’s fine. Let them count. You keep eating.