Sunday, 19 June 2016

O, Sister of Mine (Recycled Post)

Okay.  So. I'm cheating a bit on this post.  I wrote this one for an old blog account that I was terrible at keeping up to date with.

"But Becky, you are so regular and punctual with your clockwork-like, evenly spaced apart posts on here!  Surely this cannot be?"

I know, I know.  My past habits do both shock and amaze, kind reader.  Anyway, as I was deactivating said old account, I came across one solitary post from 2012 that was longer than a single paragraph, and because I didn't want the whole probably 20 minutes or so's effort to go to waste, I have chosen to recycle it and share it with you.  Because I'm generous like that and recycling helps saves the whales and shit...Not sure if that applied to blogging, but whatever.  Here it is:

O, Sister 

For the purpose of...well, there's no good purpose - I will be referring to my friends and relatives by their first initial (until I mention two people with the same initial...I'll cross that bridge when I come to it). Possibly it is because it makes me sound all science-y, and this makes me feel like a professional observer of my own life. "Behold! Exhibit A!" etc.

Today, I will be shedding a light on my love/straight-up abuse fuelled relationship with my twenty two year old sister. Exhibit R. Today, we put on a believable front of two reasonably socialised female adults who get on well. Most of the time. But it hasn't always been like this.

It all started when she was born. With two point five years of totally monopolizing my parents' attention under my belt, it would have been an understatement to say that I was unhappy with the arrival of the tiny flesh monkey that had the same surname as me.

"You coming to the hospital to meet your baby sister?"


"Do you not want to see what she looks like?"


*dragged kicking and screaming to hospital anyway*


(Fade to hospital scene. I am sat on a too-big-for-me chair, pointedly staring at anything other than my new relative.)

"Isn't she gorgeous?"


"Do you want to hold her?"


My reaction to babies is much the same to this day. I fully blame Rachel. I mean R...

Over the years, though, we have learned to live with one another. Or, rather, I have learned to back down because she can easily kick my arse. Here are some examples of a few incidences in which she may have realised that, of the pair of us, she has the upper hand:

* Hanging around a garden centre as our parents shop - R and I are inspecting a variety if exotic plants and cacti. R points out a vivid green specimen covered it what looks like friendly, white fluff. She tells me that it is a cactus, because she is a smart arse like that.  In a bid to prove R wrong - that said specimen is, in fact, not a cactus as it has no visible spikes, I wrap my fist around it. The fluff isn't friendly. It takes two days to get all the tiny spikes out of my palms. Vegetation/Rachel 1, Becky 0.

* More shopping - R and I are keeping ourselves busy in a Pound Stretcher or similar. I am inspecting some toys and sizing up which ones I should nag my parents for. I feel a tap on my shoulder.

"Bec, look what I found!" I turn around to be met with a split second view of R grinning happily, followed by a large, red boxing glove coming straight for my nose.

* A visit to the grandparents - R finds a boomerang. Pretty similar story to previous.

* Same trip to grandparents' - same story as previous two. This time it's a golf ball from above.

I'm sure my subconscious will dredge up some similar horrors from my childhood soon enough for your enjoyment and my embarrassment.

The main point of this post...I that sibling rivalry doesn't dissolve through some process of maturation and improved communication, forging bonds and...etc, etc. It actually happens when one of you realises that your brother/sister could kick seven shades of shit out of you should they choose to do so. You then bow to their physical/mental superiority accordingly, never openly admitting that they are harder than you, and choosing friendship over competition, as it hurts less than being hit in the chops.

And if you don't think that this has happened to you, then congrats, you're the meanie. Go pick on someone your own age/size/stupid poo-facedness, you smelly bully!

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