My little sister is probably the best thing my parents ever gave me.

Iris and Hazel, blythe and bonny, tummies to Te Papa's duck poo covered steps, dabbling their hands to feel the slime on the wet step below.

"Eww, slimy! Feel it Iris."
"That's yuck. Not eat it."
"Not eat it, not drink it, not put it on your head."
"No, not put it on my head!"

The ducks looked well (none told me of viral symptoms) but I got the girls to use the alcohol gel cleanser I keep in my handbag anyway. Hazel and Iris just like to do stuff together, and I want them to be able to for as long as possible. We'd had lunch with my friend whose sister died. I lost one of my friends, her parents lost half their daughters, but she lost all her sisters.


Tonight my sister and I were designing our dream retirement village on the phone. It'd have people come in and teach crafts (materials covered in the cost of the course), lots of roleplayers, a good library and interloans, and it would be very high tech. Whatever that means then. I now understand why my first cousins twice removed built their own retirement village, it means they got the pool and the bushwalks that they wanted. Oh yeah, I want a pool and bushwalks too.