The Blackest of Sheep

Everybody claims to be the black sheep of their family. Statistically speaking, such claims are most often made during family holidays. But for the blackest of sheep there is no such thing, and no more have I felt my blackness than last week when a chain of events confirmed my position on the outer branches of the family tree.

"We're planning a family holiday!" my sister Uma said, in a barely audible mixture of excitement and poor network reception.
"Oh yeah? Where to?" I said, in an audible yet curious mixture of fascination and fear, remembering the rows and sulks of family holidays past.
"The South of France."
"Cool," I said, assessing the relative pros and cons of location versus company in my mind. "I'll have to call you back later," I looked at my watch. "I've got a date."

During which, incidentally, my mum had phoned and left a message on my machine. "Hi San," it started. "We’re trying to book a family holiday and need to ask you something! Can you call us back?"

And so I did, having decided that being in the South of France might outweigh actually being with the family. But, it turns out, I had misunderstood my mum's message. "We were trying to book the holiday on the Internet," she explained. "But couldn't work out what the security code was that they were asking for. Don't worry though - we worked it out and booked the four tickets."
"Only four?" I asked.
"Yeah," my mum replied. "You don't mind staying behind to look after the dog, do you?"