The Stubborn Line

My little sister, it’s your birthday.

We’ve been incredibly lucky, to have almost always spent your birthday with you, to celebrate. To have drinks together and make the most of your sense of adventure and love of partying. I’m slowly adjusting to the thought of not having our usual Easter holidays with you in Scotland and although I understand that it, of course, has to be this way (and we are exceptionally lucky) I’m craving some time with you and your family. I miss you.

[I think back to one of my most wonderful days ever. I still remember it with crystal clear clarity. It’s your 24th birthday and we’re on holiday with the whole family on the Isle of Mull. We start the day with whisky, tea and yoga on the rocks at sunrise. Then we do you a little present hunt as we wait for the ferry to Iona for Sea Bream and white wine in the pub at lunch. We are all stood on the jetty waiting and we are bickering about who is the most stubborn out of all us. This is particularly dominated by us four (grown adult) siblings, our partners look on at us aghast, a moment of realisation that this is their life now. Someone suggests that we stand in a line from the most stubborn to the least stubborn. But the problem is that, because we are all so stubborn, no one wants to be the one to be at the top of the stubborn line. It takes a long time and most of us are hysterical by the end of it. It is a source of much debate today. But for what it’s worth I still think you are very high up on the stubborn line. When we get to beautiful Iona, we have an uninterrupted afternoon on the beach together, a ball and drinking straight out of a bottle of Chateu Neuf du Pape (the corner shop didn’t know what they had and were selling it for £7 a bottle, do you remember? I bought every bottle on the shelf.) We finished the day by running over the rocks and a massive pod of dolphins swam and played beside us in crystal clear waters, then followed us on the boat back to Mull. Just for good measure we stopped and had drinks in the pub. We sealed the deal with a pint. One of my most wonderful days.]

FaceTime just isn’t tactile enough for me, I can’t cuddle you, I can’t pour you a glass of wine or make you a cup of tea and I can’t insist on doing your feet and picking at you. I can’t stare at you very closely with intent until you give me a look and bat me away. Most people would find it highly uncomfortable but you are used to it, being the little sister, you know the territory it comes with; being examined and poked and prodded and interrogated by your older sisters. Not so much your brother.

You were built for times like this, your pantry stocked up via your wholesale cooperative with pulses and oats and pasta and rice, lined up in kilner jars all neatly in a row. You don’t buy in to consumerism. “Boycott the supermarkets!” you say “This is totally the way to shop. Cheaper and tastier.” You focus on what matters to you and your family - the beautiful family and home you have built in a blissful corner of the world - art, creativity, environment, music, peace, community, contentment; a perfect set up for sustainable living and social isolation.

[I remember when you set up an outdoor playgroup, up where you are. Every Friday we would receive incredible photos of the children out in the wild, having wonderful adventures and creating art in nature. We were so impressed with you, we tried to create our own in this part of the world. We had a good few weeks of trying to be similarly wholesome but I think the Friday where we really revealed our true colours was when you lead a climate change strike for children at a local outdoor space. You sent us photos of all the children holding up signs about saving the planet and smashing the patriarchy. It was incredible. But then you asked us how ours had gone. We shamefully sent you photos of us eating cheese and drinking wine on a friends patio. The children had painted a chair in the garden.]

Not that you would ever judge us or make us feel unworthy of your goddess-like qualities. No, you are the one to revel in such stories and celebrate the good in them with others. You always bring the best out in people. You are kind. You make parenting three children under the age of three look like a walk in the park, you do it with grace and stoicism. You don’t break a sweat.

So no, although I cannot be with you on your birthday this year, no wonky cake, no whisky for the road or yoga on the beach, I know you will have a fantastic day because you always do. You always make the best of every day.

Cheers to you; my amazing little sister.

“I wonder

who’s arms would I run and fall in to

if I were drunk

in a room with everyone

I’ve ever loved” - author unknown