This is very lazy blogging but it's late (maybe not for you, but I'm getting old, remember?) and I've had a very busy day with work, last-minute birthday preparations, meeting friends at the pub and then seeing Love Story (which was great!), and now I feel sick because we just wolfed a pizza and my belt's on a tight notch to keep my dress on. But I want to post this, because as well as being Bastille Day, today is my eldest sister's birthday.
When I was eighteen, I had a lot of time for bars, and shopping, and that was about it. But when she was eighteen, my sister had time for me, her pretentious little eight-year-old sister who wanted to be an actress and read Baby-Sitters Club books. She used to take me to the movies, in the city, which I rarely visited. I could choose where to have lunch first, and I would always pick Finance Plaza, a foodcourt that was upstairs and outdoors and had birds and people in suits, or Soul Cafe which had murals on the walls and low lighting and made me think I had died and gone to heaven it was so cool. She'd let me order a burger she must have known I would never finish, and she'd order one too, like we were girlfriends. I thought I was eighteen, and wearing Timberlands and light blue jeans, not eight and in a polo shirt and sports shoes.Then we'd go to the movie; maybe the latest Disney offering I was desperate to see, other times something at the Academy. When she'd go to the movies with her friends at night, I would often wake up to find a container of Tangy Fruits on my bedside table.
She taught me so many things, cultivated a love of things that make my life great, and introduced me to many, many more. Sam Cooke is one of those things; I don't remember the first Sam Cooke song I ever heard her play, but I know he, like so many other of my favourite musicians, came through her, and I'm so grateful. But not nearly as grateful as I am just to have her, and that she has always had time for me.