Tag Archives: shower

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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Other people’s resolutions

Drink. Don’t drink.

Just don’t explain. There’s nothing worse than someone who thinks I’m interested in them. ‘I’m not drinking for January,’ someone explained to me last night. ‘I think my bed is too big so I fill one half of it with pillows,’ I replied. My friend was somewhat startled. ‘Oh,’ I said. ‘I’m sorry. I thought we were sharing uninteresting facts about ourselves.’ I’m perfectly happy to drink alone. (In the same way, as a fully-functioning grown-up, I’m entirely comfortable showering alone. Though obviously it is nice to do things together. But not if you stand in front of the shower head while I’m trying to rinse shampoo out of my hair).

I’m much less happy to listen to a 10 minute diatribe on how nice it is not to be hungover/ how clear your skin is/ how much energy you now have. (Quick point on the ‘energy’- you’re substituting vast quantities of sugar for the booze you once ingested. That’s why you feel ‘so alive’). I don’t mind what your New Year’s resolution was, but let me assure you that mine was not, ‘be more interested in other people’. (For an expose of my New Year’s resolution, please check the Metro tomorrow morning).

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Guests

Someone has eaten all my hotdog rolls.

I don’t want to point fingers, but I’m pretty certain it’s my little sister, who came to visit this weekend. I normally quite like visitors. They bring gifts, and make one look popular, and are an excellent excuse for daytime drinking. My little sister is a different matter. ‘I’m just going to my dressing room,’ she announced loudly. I ignored her, accustomed to years of her impenetrable oddness. I wandered into my bedroom to pick up a book. ‘Aaagh!’ I shouted as my hand touched warm human flesh. ‘What on earth are you doing in my dressing room?’ my little sister asked, perplexed. ‘This is my bedroom,’ I told her firmly. ‘And I think those are my tights.’ I had to take a shower, so I left my little sister to finish getting dressed. I marched back into my bedroom. ‘There’s something I need to explain to you,’ I said crossly. ‘The bathroom floor is not part of the shower.’

‘It’s very wet on the floor,’ my little sister said cheerily. ‘I should probably not have kept popping in and out of the shower. It’s just that I forgot things.’ I look at my shower. Body Shop seems to have thrown up inside it.

‘How is it at all possible for one person to need 8 bottles to take a shower?’ I asked, exasperated. ‘Well,’ my little sister replies smugly. ‘Not everyone thinks all you need to shower is shampoo.’ ‘That’s because everyone else are idiots,’ I tell her. ‘Anyway,’ my little sister says, unperturbed, ‘I’ve found a stash of sweets in my dressing room, so I’m just off to eat those.’

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