Becoming Someone

Whenever I catch up with friends, we always end up chewing over the same old topics: how our dream jobs gave way to marking time till retirement; how those gorgeous hunks, who we lost our hearts to, matured into middle-aged bores; how our angelic children transmogrified into grunting adolescents. Once we’ve dealt with those old chestnuts we’ll move on to analysing, depending on the season, The Great British Bake Off or I’m a Celebrity Get Me Out Of Here. And finally, they might ask about my sister.

So how’s she doing these days?

She’s doing fine.

Helluva thing to come to terms with.

She’s happy enough.

What was it again?

Cancer.

What she must have gone through. Puts all our grumbles in perspective.

You could say that.

Well, pass on my regards when you see her next.

Sure.

So how’s she doing these days?

“Why don’t you go round?” says my mother. “You could see for yourself.”

I don’t exactly tell Mum I won’t go. I tell her about the latest reorganisation at work; four middle managers having to reapply for three posts. I tell her I’m thinking of asking my GP for HRT. I tell her about the endless negotiations with the builders about the loft conversion, and the infernal dust.

“You should see what your sister’s had done to her place. New kitchen units at exactly the right height.”

My husband and I had this fantasy of creating a teenage den in the loft, sealing off the noise and hormones from the rest of the house. Instead, we’ve got builder’s grime in the salt cellar.

“You can’t be too busy to drive ten miles,” says my mother. “It’s not like it’s the other end of the country.”

It’s not.

“You didn’t even send her a Get Well card.”

I didn’t.

Selfish cow, me.