My Dear Sister

It's my birthday next month. I will be 45. This seems quite old, but at least there will be presents. I like to make sure of this, so am inclined to drop mentions of my forthcoming birthday into conversation, in the weeks beforehand.

I spent a couple of days with my sister last week. She's younger than me (just turned 42), there are only the two of us, and she's a great mate as well as a sister. Terrible memory, though, so I thought I'd better say casually 'You know, I'll be 45 next month.'

She turned to me, her eyes widening, and said 'Cor, that's halfway to NINETY!'

Gee thanks, sis.

Then later, she added injury to insult. Relevant background: she, her husband, and her son, have a selection of chronic but manageable health problems, so their house is littered with medical paraphernalia. Inhalers and syringes lie around all over the place, and every time you open the fridge, drugs with a street value of thousands fall out of the door. One of the drugs my sister has to take makes her skin dry, and our mother had bought her some posh handcream. She asked if I'd like to try it, warning me I'd only need a tiny bit, so I did and liked it a lot - it smells fabulous.

'Do you want some?' she asked. 'It'll take me ages to get through it, I'll happily give you half.'

'Ooh, yes please,' I said.

So off she went, and I amused myself with a magazine until she came back and held out a container. I could see she was trying not to smile. I put out my hand to take it from her, and then I realised.

'You didn't,' I said.

'At least you know it's sterile,' she said, giggling like a baby hyena.

She had put my handcream in a specimen bottle.