My Naughty Little Sister

Today's blog is entirely dedicated to my naughty little sister. Or, it would be if I had one. I do have a little sister. Only she is not naughty. She's not really naughty in any way.

She's 5 years younger than me and entirely more mature and level headed than I suspect I will ever be. When my parents had children they carefully chose names that couldn't be shortened into irritating familiar versions of the names they had painstakingly chosen. I completely sympathise - there must nothing worse than agonising for 9 months (or longer) over what to christen your ball of genes only to find his grubby urchin street friends have had a get together, thought 'Miss Lexx you are clearly a fool. We've had a little chat and decided 'Tezza' is a much more appropriate tag for him to take forward into the adult world.'

So for myself and my older sister they settled on Sarah and Laura. These never get shortened. Occasionally some one will attempt to call me 'Law' which results in me adding the 'ra' to the end. This means that these friends don't last for long becuase they inevitably think I'm barking at them and they run for the hills.

So, when it came to my next sibling - what changed in their pattern of thinking? They chose Megan. For one, we are not Welsh, we are a pretty mongrel family in terms of heritage but there isn't really a jot of Welsh, so Megan is an odd choice. We are primarily of Scottish/South African decsent making us stingy with a tendency to aggressively colour coordinate. So the Welsh thing is pretty baffling.

Poor little Megan has learnt over the years to answer to any one of the following nicknames that has been cast upon her;
Meg, Mog, Peg, Peggy, Meggy, Mogwin, Egg, Milly Moggy Moo, Peggity, Peg-a-leg, Megalith, Meggity, Megwin, Pegwin, Mogwyn (the y is important) - and, at family occasions where people like to tell her that the name stems from Margaret, she also has to cope with Margaret (original), Maggie, Mag and possibly worst of all Marge. No self respecting 19 yr old should have to roll her blue eyes, toss her beautiful blonde hair and answer to Marge.

Megan is 5 years younger than me and unfortunately for me we don't look a lot like sisters. We look a lot like a waify blonde model has attracted a needy midget with uncannily similar eyebrows. I have a desperate need for approval from my little sister. Our relationship has always been a little backwards. She often gets midnight phone calls from me wailing about my latest panic and she calmly and collectedly tells me to pull myself back together and go to sleep. She was promoted to department manager in her job after approximately 16 hours on the job. I travel the length and breadth of the country telling jokes and asking people to read my daily outpourings of barmpot. She is altogether a lot more, well altogether than I am. And I applaud her for it.

When she was little she honestly looked like a cartoon cherub. She had perfect blonde curls, was, well, fat. She was fat. She was a little marshmallow baby. And I delight in this fact because at some point in our lives I have been skinnier than her - even if it did only last a few years. Or until she had control over how much she ate. Actually, my earliest memories of her having control over what she ate were of her controlling several snails and woodlice into her mouth and delightedly crunching and chewing. I don't know if you've ever scooped well masticated snail shell and woodlouse legs out of a cherub's mouth but it really does make you wonder if religion is all it's cracked up to be.

On the few occasions I managed to get her to come to University to visit me I immediately wanted to pack her on the next train home and get her as far away as possible. Not because she was a pest - I am the pest - but because a vast horde of male admirers would be offering to buy me drinks in exchange for an introduction to my sister. I'm pretty sure had she stayed for more than a few days she would be married by now. Albeit to someone far beneath her, but hell, that's what divorce is for.

I like to bother Megan. Bothering Megan is one of my favourite past times, and like a true adult she dutifully puts up with it because she knows this is just how our relationship works. When I've been away from her for too long it starts to show, because I start to bother other people who don't react to it so well and bad things happen. She is like a vaccine or a drug that I am dependent on for release of botherness.

I suppose I don't really have anything to end this on. It's just a little dedication to my eternally wonderful little older younger sister. Long may she sigh and wish I was easier to be around while I am poking her in the back of the neck and marvelling that it is the only place on her body that she has fat. We call her neck fat deposit Carlton. Well, I call it that. Because I'm pretty sure if you shaved her head she would look like Uncle Phil from the Fresh Prince. But I mean if some slightly hidden neck fat is your only worry, you're laughing?