I HAVE learnt three essential things while having my sister here.
Never let her use the gas stove, don’t drink wine on the lounge room floor and leave early when heading to the airport.
It has been a huge and entertaining week with my crazy sister — and one I am still coming down from.
It was full of highs, but also some lows.
Because there are just some things my sister should never do.
And using my gas stove has gone to the top of the list — with a big, red warning stamp attached.
Because we could have either died from a gas explosion or prolonged gas poisoning.
Thankfully, my heightened sense of smell saved the day.
As well as her knack in the kitchen, my sister has also mastered the skill of spilling wine (usually red, of course) on every bit of carpet she and I have ever owned.
To be fair, it is a family trait.
So why we decided to play board games on the floor while drinking our favourite drop of red is beyond me.
As luck would have it, my carpet is already a lovely shade of maroon so we could quite easily hide our indiscretions.
The other thing that happens when my sister and I get together is catching up on lost time.
It’s a never-ending talk sesh, so we quite often become oblivious to the world around us.
Hence, you can imagine how easy it is for us to a) get lost, and b) arrive at our destination very, very late.
Not once, but twice.
Meeting in Sydney last week my sis and I got into a conversation about whether Rove McManus would accept my Facebook friend request (after meeting him the night before) and stepped onto the train we believed was headed to Sydney Airport.
About 15 minutes into the trip and hearing some strange-sounding suburb called out over the loudspeaker, I realised we were heading in the opposite direction of our intended destination.
Five stops, 45 minutes and a screaming toddler later, we arrived at the airport with only seconds to spare.
But did we learn from that debacle? Of course not.
Driving my sister to Melbourne Airport for her return flight home, we stupidly thought we had plenty of time to spare.
We didn’t account for roadworks, hungry children, toilet stops and detours.
Next thing we know we’re late.
This time, instead of a screaming toddler, we had a sick one.
All those windy detours and chicken nuggets to appease the children, resulted in a spewing three-year-old.
And then I had to drive home again with my two asking me every 15 minutes ‘Are we there yet?
Good times. Well they probably will be in 15 years when we are sitting around in our support hose; still talking but recalling all those good times.
Time, I am told, heals all wounds (but doesn’t get vomit out of the myriad places it can fill in the back seat of a car).
Yep, good times.