Tag Archives: little sister

March 12, 2013 · 12:13 pm

My little sister hates the witch-doctor

I’m back from Africa, mostly unharmed- a little burnt, a little fatter and a bird pooed on my ear whilst I was waiting for a ferry, but all in all, a smashing trip. Oh, and my little sister trapped my fingers between the car door and its window; but luckily it took her several moments to release them, figuring, as she said, ‘That I was making a fuss about nothing’.

So, some reduced mobility in my left hand, and a burning desire to inflict ill upon my little sister, but otherwise, everything is as it was before I left.

Although, naturally, I am, internally, deeply changed. This change, unfortunately, has absolutely nothing to do with Africa itself, and everything to do with my family.

‘What are we doing today?’ I asked my Grandfather sleepily over breakfast- a breakfast which, although delicious, had to be eaten in a strange contortionist position, as I attempted to remove all parts of myself from being touched by the wretched dogs, who my Grandparents fed surreptitiously from everyone’s plates.

We were going on a township tour, so my little sister was told not to wear anything ‘flashy or expensive’. (No-one bothered to give me any sartorial advice, except my little sister, who suggested that I stopped wearing tops and ‘gave in’ to the muumuu).

I liked the township tour a lot; we learnt how to play the drums, were introduced to the head homebrew maker (a lady, which made my Grandmother squeal with delight, and shout, ‘Girl Power’, whilst my little sister and I tried to disappear with embarrassment), and I sat placidly with the local witch-doctor as my little sister fumed with rage over his ‘false medicine’. (To be fair to her, he told us happily that he bought his ‘remedies’ from the supermarket. it sort of took some of the mystique out of the whole affair).

As we were leaving, we took a final look around the poorest homes- shacks, without indoor toilets or constant electricity.

‘My God,’ I said somberly to my little sister. ‘Yes, this has been so useful for you both,’ My Grandmother told us as we left. ‘Emma, now you can see your competition, medically speaking. And Lucy- you can write about this in your blog!’

My little sister and I stared at my Grandmother in confusion. Obviously, my Grandmother has never bothered to read my blog, and, given that my little sister then described it as a ‘endless diatribe about her troubles running baths of the correct temperature, or how she hates it when I put my alarm on snooze’, it is unlikely that she will now start. Which is completely fine, because I am well aware that there are lots of excellent things to read on the internet-except that I later caught her asking my little sister if she could have a copy of her dissertation, a 10,000 word project on the spread of visceral leishmaniasis through Bangladeshi sand-flies. There’s lots of great stuff out there to read that’s certainly better than this blog- but I’m pretty sure that isn’t it.

In conclusion, back from Africa physically OK, emotionally undone. But much improved on the drums.

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March 11, 2013 · 11:25 am

The importance of socks

My little sister and I have an ongoing competition: who would survive best in a life-threatening situation. Jail, she wins- she’s taller and stronger than me, and doesn’t mind carrying heavy things (we are, naturally, being sent to jail during the Victorian age, and will be spending our time on the railroads, or breaking rocks or something). Inexplicably shoved into a Hunger Games-type scenario?

We’re still deciding, but I think my people skills far outweigh her brute strength. A panicked cross-country flee from a serial killer? I am 100% better equipped to survive. I take 3 minute showers, unlike my little sister, who has a deeply anti-social habit of falling asleep in the shower in the morning; I always know where my Oyster card and passport are; I have shoved all my leftover foreign currency into a box on my bookshelf. I believe, firmly, that people wash their clothes too often, and am perfectly content to re-read books over and over. In short, I will be packed and on the Heathrow Express before my little sister can comprehend that the angry knocking on the bathroom door is the beginning of a Psycho-type scenario, not simply me, wondering angrily how ‘anyone can take so long in the bloody shower’.

I have spent years studying fleeing people in movies and TV shows, and can tell you definitively that they are doing it wrong. When TV people are fleeing, why do they always heap things from the top drawer of their wardrobe into their suitcase? No-one stores jeans or jumpers in the top drawer. I can only believe that thousands of movies and TV shows are letting their protagonists hastily pack bags full of socks.

Now, socks are tremendously useful- I scarcely ever have sufficient pairs, and my own sock drawer is a delightful testament to a life spent ‘borrowing’ other peoples socks (socks are like elastic hair-bands- no one is going to ask for them back, unless you are foolish enough to stumble across their owner whilst wearing them, weeks after the initial borrow; but even then, it is fairly difficult to forcibly remove socks from someone else’s feet without looking slightly deranged), but let’s say you’re making a panicked flight to Brazil from the man who you believe killed your Father and stole most of your inheritance, and is now out to kill you to stop the truth from coming to light- all I’m saying is, socks can only go so far. (Not literally- socks, unhindered by any cross-country regulations or border controls, can circumvent the world at ease, but you know, metaphorically).

‘I think socks are useful. After all, everyone gets cold feet on airplanes,’ My little sister pointed out. ‘That’s why they give you free socks on long-haul flights.’

‘Precisely,’ I replied joyously. ‘They give you free socks! There is absolutely no need whatsoever to pack any socks at all!’ As my little sister began a diatribe on the virtues of washing, and general cleanliness, I quietly pointed out that she had already been killed, whilst I, not even needing to check any baggage, was well on my way to a lifetime of mojitos and ex-pat burning in warmer climes.

‘What about Hell,’ My little sister responded robustly. ‘With your ghostly complexion, you’d never survive. But I’d coerce the other inhabitants into making me a protective enclosure.’ ‘Oh yes?’ I replied, disbelievingly. ‘And why would they do that?’ ‘Socks,’ My little sister replied smugly. ‘I’d bribe them with socks.’

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January 15, 2013 · 11:11 am

Les Mis: too much rain

I saw Les Mis last night. I can, for those of you who have not seen it, quickly sum it up: very close face shots and endless rain. ‘There’s hardly any speaking,’ My little sister warned me before I went. ‘Obviously,’ I replied snottily. ‘It’s a musical.” I love musicals. I have several times started the day by singing at my flatmates, in a bid to convince them that we are in a special musical episode of the sitcom of our lives. ‘Morning has broken,’ I trilled when I woke up at 5.30am to do my early-morning wee. ‘And I am doing a wee.’ Inexplicably, my flatmates did not join in. Possibly they were waiting for the chorus, being shy, self-effacing types who do not like to steal my limelight. Undeterred, later that day I began to sing the entire musical repertoire from ‘The Sound of Music.’

I believe my flatmate was a little late to her lecture that morning, because ‘So Long, farewell, Auf Wiedersehen Goodbye’ actually has a fair number of verses.

Naturally, given my (self-taught) background in musical theatre, I was thrilled to see Les Mis. ‘Gosh,’ I thought to myself as the movie began. ‘It was very rainy in 19th Century France. No wonder Anne Hathaway decided to cut her hair so short- that kind of endless wet won’t do anything positive to one’s hair.’

The movie continued along. And on. There was more rain. There were 40,000 shots of famous actors’ tonsils. I whispered to my friend to check if she had any snacks on her. She did not. I looked up at the movie, disappointed. It was still raining. I started to need the loo. And maybe a lozenge.

‘What did you think?’ My little sister asked when I bumped into her this morning. (Physically- I didn’t have my contacts in and I wasn’t expecting to see anyone, assuming that my flatmates, having so called ‘real jobs’, wake up at 5.30am to get to work and so on, like all the proper grown-ups seem to). ‘Too much rain,’ I said sadly.’And too much face.’ My little sister looked at me slightly oddly. ‘Are you sure you actually went to the cinema? Did you not perhaps simply stay in the shower, singing to yourself in the mirror?’ ‘I did not,’ I replied staunchly. ‘But that has given me a cracking idea for a new musical.’

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January 11, 2013 · 12:07 pm

I did what anyone normal would have done

Having promised my little sister that if I did more ‘communal chores’ she would do less ‘leaving her stuff all over our flat’, I dutifully took the rubbish out.

‘Hello!’ My neighbor said cheerfully. ‘Off for a run? You are so good. I really should run.’ I looked at her a little oddly. I was most certainly not going for a run. I was simply taking the rubbish out, like a good housemate. I was wearing running kit because I had run out of clean clothes, and a baseball cap because I hadn’t showered yet.

I opened my mouth to quickly explain. ‘Gosh,’ My neighbor continued. ‘I always see you in running kit. I wish I had half your energy.’ I shut my mouth quickly. Here was a real-life, actual person, admiring me. Not only that- she was admiring my lifestyle! My lifestyle, which is the source of almost continual mockery and jeering amongst my family and flatmates! Obviously I did what any normal person would do, in the face of such a confusion. ‘Ah,’ I said kindly. ‘Don’t worry! Just start slowly and build up from there. See you later.’ I quickly let go of the black bin bag I had been holding and jogged away, cursing my neighbor behind my happy-looking runner’s smile.*

*Who knows what they look like? I was just trying to do a nice thing for my flatmates.*

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January 10, 2013 · 11:28 am

I’m still furious- I’m just putting it on ice.

Just before our Father picked us up, my little sister and I had a blazing row.

‘Look,’ She hissed at me furiously as we walked to the restaurant. ‘I have to work the next 14 days straight, 12-hour shifts. If you’re going to be horrible, you should just go home.’ ‘I can’t,’ I replied venomously. ‘Because you rushed me and now I don’t have my keys or my phone, so I can’t. I’m just going to stay here and be furious at you instead.’ At this point, my Father wandered over to see what we were talking about. ‘Nothing,’ My little sister replied sweetly, glaring at me. ‘Nothing at all,’ I repeated, turning to whisper to my sister, ‘I have not forgotten how cross I am with you. It’s just, as a grown-up, I’m putting it on ice. We’ll deal with this later.’

My little sister nodded in understanding. ‘On ice,’ I hissed as I followed her and my Father into the restaurant.

We were arguing furiously yet secretly because I wanted Italian, and my little sister wanted Indian. Being the more mature sibling (emotionally- age wise there’s very little in it), I tried to explain. ‘I really like Indian,’ I began graciously. ‘But I do not like sharing food with Dad.’ My little sister nodded in agreement. My Father has many excellent qualities. Sharing is not one of them. My Father shares precisely as Archimedes would- exactly.

‘I don’t want so much,’ You complain as he painstakingly distributes your allotted share. ‘And she doesn’t like tomatoes.’ Personal needs and desires are not taken into account by my Father, who shares food in a manner that would make Marx shiver in joy.

At the restaurant, we staged a mini-capitalist coup, and had a very pleasant evening, each of us carefully guarding our own little plot of individual food, whilst me and my little sister intermittently hissed at each other, ‘On ice.’ All in all, it was one of the more family-themed events of the last month- everyone zealously looking after their own needs, whilst half the table were engaged in a secret yet furious row. It seems like the long wait til next Christmas will fly by- though possibly not for my little sister, who seems to be working an extraordinary amount. (I will be sure to point this out to her- people really like that).

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November 7, 2012 · 11:21 am

Who’s been sleeping in my bed?

I live with my little sister by choice, because she is my always friend. For a long time, I genuinely believed that the sole reason for my little sister’s existence was to be a companion to myself. It came as somewhat of a shock to hear that my parents had actually wanted another child. Until I realised that if your first baby is as awesome as me, naturally you would continue to procreate.

It is, for the most part, fantastic living with your always friend. My little sister is the funniest person I have ever met, buys super expensive Waitrose food, and has the most enormous DVD collection I have ever seen.

This week, however, has been slightly different. It started, as most weeks do, on Monday. ‘Lucy,’ My little sister began carefully. ‘Do you have a sleeping bag?’ I looked at her oddly. ‘No,’ I replied, climbing into my freshly made bed. ‘Sleep well.’ 30 minutes later, as I was drifting off to sleep, playing one of my favourite in-my-head games, where I am perfectly and aptly delivering all the zinging one-liners I failed to think of in time in real life, my little sister thundered her way into my bedroom.

‘I’m sleeping here,’ She announced, clambering into bed next to me just as I was telling my Year 1 art teacher why my Mother’s Day gift was ‘too good for her bourgeois conceptions of art’. She then proceeded to hop in and out of bed for the next 20 mins, each journey accompanied by a turning on of the overhead light, collecting her phone, endless glasses of water, and another pillow. It was, to the best of my imaginings, exactly like sharing a bed with Margaret Thatcher.*

My little sister wakes up early, and so was long gone by the time I blearily made my way to the shower. Washing vigorously to try to remove some of the gritty trauma of the night before (my little sister sleeps so stilly that I had to check several times in the night that she was still alive), I hopped out of the shower and into the welcoming embrace of no towel. Because my little sister has seemingly developed late-onset colour-blindness, and can no longer tell the difference between blue (my towel) and green (her, certainly unwashed and rather ratty-looking towel).

As I tried to tell my Mother later that day, sometimes, it’s better to realise that, Guy-Ritchie like, your first creation is just the best thing you’re ever going to make.

*Margaret Thatcher famously only slept 4 hours a night. This is usually held up as an admirable trait, but I now think we should all spend a few moments thinking about poor Denis.*

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October 3, 2012 · 12:51 pm

In which I am wise

On Monday, I left the house early, feeling smug. I had carefully packed my gym bag, and left it un-missably opposite the front door. I had a plan. I was going to go to work, then pop home and rush straight out to the gym. ‘Golly,’ I thought as I slammed my front door. ‘It is so easy to be organised. Why do people make such a fuss about it?’

It wasn’t until I got to work that I realised I had forgotten my keys.

Luckily, my housemate (junior doctor, coming off 3 consecutive night-shifts) was at home, lounging around in her bed, so I quickly ran the front door bell upon my return until she stumbled downstairs to let me in.

Yesterday, I was at the theatre, so naturally I ignored the several missed calls I received from both my housemate and my little sister. I arrived home cheerfully just before midnight. ‘Hello!’ I yelled as I entered our flat. ‘I see you guys missed me. But I am home now.’ I was greeted with a frosty silence by my little sister, who had apparently had to curtail her own evening to deliver keys to my housemate, who had forgotten hers. ‘Well,’ I said briskly. ‘That’s very silly.’ My housemate made a facial expression which I believe embodied both her contrition and her quiet appreciation of my words of wisdom.

Today, I forgot my keys.

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September 18, 2012 · 11:21 am

I never asked to be born first

I have found something to add to the long list of injustices and ruthless mistreatment that I have suffered at the hands of my parents. For a long time, I was deeply angry that I was the eldest. Whereas most teenagers yell at their parents, ‘I never asked to be born,’ I personally screamed, ‘I never asked to be born first’.

Being born first is the pits. Your siblings spend their entire childhoods being slower and stupider and more boring to play with than you, and then suddenly spring up and show you up by beating all your academic and sporting records. ‘It is well known,’ I remember telling my little sister, as she smashed my 400m record.

‘That it is much, much harder to set the pace than to overtake it.’ Unfortunately, despite my years of campaigning, there is still no prize for “setting a now-beaten record in more difficult circumstances”.

Being the eldest means you are always the one tasked with coming up with interesting games and then, as reward for your effort and ingenuity, admonished by your parents for being ‘the ringmaster’.

‘But if we weren’t here, who would you have to play with?’ My little sister often asked me. ‘No,’ I explained crossly. ‘You should still be here. Just I should be in the middle.’ ‘I’m in the middle,’ My little sister replied sadly. ‘Mum forgot my birthday last year.’

‘OK,’ I said thoughtfully. ‘Maybe I don’t want to be the middle child. The youngest. That’s a great gig.’

‘I’m not sure, you know,’ My little sister replied. ‘We exclude our little brother pretty consistently. Plus, you spend your entire childhood being worse than your siblings at everything, just because you’re littler.’

‘Another excellent point,’ I mused. ‘Perhaps being the eldest is the best.’ My little sister, entirely uninterested in this conversation, wandered off to make a sandwich. An hour later, I accosted her in her room. ‘I’ve got it,’ I yelled happily. ‘I need a twin.’ ‘But what if your twin was better than you? Then you wouldn’t even be able to claim your imaginary “difficult circumstances” prize.’ ‘I wasn’t finished,’ I said quickly. ‘I need a twin, who is slightly worse than me at everything. Now, let’s go ask Mum and Dad why I didn’t get one.’

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August 15, 2012 · 11:15 am

Abracadabra

‘The best thing about being alive,’ I said to my little sister yesterday. ‘Is that there are moments when you feel as though you’re magic.’ My sister looked at me uncomprehendingly. ‘Yes,’ I continued. ‘For instance, riding a bike. There’s no way a person should be able to ride a bike. And yet I can. Magic.’

My sister wandered into the kitchen to get some food, or to avoid me. I followed her quickly. ‘Look!’ I said proudly. ‘See those beers? I bought those.’ ‘Lucy,’ She said firmly. ‘Having money does not make you magic.’ ‘I agree,’ I said. ‘But I got those 7 bottles of beer for £2.50. You know why?’ ‘Because they’re contaminated?’ My little sister asked dubiously, hastily putting her beer back. ‘No,’ I replied crossly. ‘Because one of my ‘skills’, which some  people might call ‘magic’, is to find tremendous bargains.’ ‘No-one would call that magic,’ My little sister told me firmly. ‘Well, ‘ I retorted. ‘Then why do they call them financial wizards?’  

 

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August 7, 2012 · 10:53 am

Check your emails

Last week, I was invited to South Africa.

I didn’t realise this at first, because I rarely read my emails, so I toddled around as normal. Then my Grandfather called me. ‘Lucy,’ he began sternly. ‘You must keep on top of your correspondence.’ I thought this was rather unfair. I keep all of my actual, real-life post in a very neat pile at the bottom of my wardrobe.

(Well, it starts its life very neatly, but it shares its home with my shoes, which I tend to need fairly regularly, so there might be some disturbance). ‘I’m sorry,’ I said quickly to my Grandpa. ‘If only the weather were better. My flip-flops live in quite a different part of my wardrobe.’ My Grandfather continued as if I had not spoken. ‘You simply must tell us what dates you want to come to South Africa,’ He said. ‘I am free all the time,’ I replied cheerfully. ‘What are we talking about?’

Apparently, people nowadays are using emails to offer things other than ‘miracle weight-loss cures’, and I should probably start reading mine.

Anyway, we’re off to South Africa. I still haven’t quite worked out when (don’t tell my Grandfather- he has sent several emails with detailed itineraries) but it’s going to be great. As all of the grandchildren (well, the ones who count) are grown-ups, we are being asked to make a modest financial contribution to the trip.

‘Grandpa has cut us some awesome deal,’ My little sister told me. ‘In which he pays for almost everything, and we pay for petrol.’ I looked at my sister. ‘Why are we buying petrol?’ I asked, bewildered. ‘Oh,’ She replied. ‘He’s renting us a car so we can travel around South Africa independently.’

‘We should probably put some money aside for car snacks,’ I said thoughtfully. ‘Gosh, I might need to get a job.’

I have started my new job. It lasts 2 weeks, and I’m not sure it’s a perfect fit. For a start, they get into the office in the morning. I usually use the morning for sleeping. Equally, they take a single hour, once a day, for lunch. I have carefully attuned my body to an eating model based on endless snacking and continuous eating of foods located in my kitchen. It has all been somewhat of a shock. Luckily, I have had several hours to read my emails, and it really seems that this form of communication is taking off! I recommend checking your emails at least once a week. It is quite amazing what people are using it for.

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