‘I think there’s something wrong with my sister,’ I said to our flatmate yesterday. ‘Why?’ He asked. ‘She’s always asleep,’ I replied matter-of-factly. ‘Perhaps she has one of those terrible tropical diseases. That would be awful. Think of all the attention she’d get, and all the time we’d have to spend moping about her hospital bed.’ My flatmate stared at me. ‘You’re right,’ I continued thoughtfully. ‘I could turn her bedroom into a walk-in wardrobe.’
My little sister is working nights (read into this as freely as you wish. I regularly inform her that she won’t make any money if she continues to leave wearing medical scrubs). ‘Show a little skin,’ I yelled at her out of our kitchen window as she crossed the road. She ignored me, but an elderly gentleman looked up at me approvingly. My little sister is working nights, which means that we don’t see each other very much, despite living in the same flat.
This is because she spends all her time sleeping. You would not imagine how inconvenient this is. Although she sleeps in a single room, her sleeping presence permeates the flat. ‘Evening,’ Our flatmate whispered to me as I walked in the door last night. ‘Evening,’ I replied in my normal dulcet tones. ‘Ssh,’ He replied. ‘She’s asleep.’
‘She’ is the reason we can’t talk in our normal voices in our own flat. ‘She’ is the person who disturbs me when I walk blearily to do my 5am wee, startling me with her cheery clothed awakeness. ‘What are you doing?’ She asked me yesterday. ‘Sleeping,’ I replied. I would have assumed given her own behaviour that she would have been less dismissive of this. ‘She’ has also started leaving little gifts outside my door, left, I am certain, with the best of intentions, but which are in reality tiny lethal death traps. ‘Aaagh,’ I shouted this morning, falling over a plate of sweets just outside my door. ‘Ssh,’ My flatmate hissed. ‘She’s asleep.’
Whether she has a tropical disease or not, it’s looking increasingly likely that my little sister will be spending some time in the hospital.