Meet my sister, circa 1992.

There are nearly four years between my sister and I. So I was firmly used to being Number One Diva in the house by the time she arrived. To soften the blow, I was given a pair of roller skates and a pair of tap shoes the day my sister was born. Apparently she was a wonder child, who miraculously exited the womb to pop to the shops and find presents worthy of buttering up an older sister. Of course I was won over the instant I saw her – those were some very special tap shoes.

My sister (her name’s Lizzy, by the way) spent her formative years being carried around by yours truly. She was far more interesting than any dolls I owned. She was also a very willing audience member in The Molly Show; she was happy to sit and watch while I performed my latest choreographed piece to Kylie Minogue or Bonnie Tyler. I mean, she was only five months old and hadn’t learned to crawl yet.

As Lizzy grew, so did her personality. She was mischievous and annoying. But she was also very keen to please. I still feel guilty for the times I used to make her come to the park with me on holiday, only to ditch her when new, “cooler” friends came along. I was a pretty mean older sister.

But while she was my nemesis, Lizzy was also my best friend. When she was eight, a friend of the family told her off during a trip to France. I huffed off to her room with her, indignant that someone had the audacity to speak that way to my little sister – only I was allowed to do that.

As teenagers, we fought and made up and fought again. And borrowed clothes. And went on holidays together. And fought. And made up again.

Then, when I was pregnant last year, a twist of fate meant Lizzy was there when I went into labour. It wasn’t planned that way, but she ended up coming to the hospital and rubbing my back along with the (self-proclaimed) Northern Love Machine. She was the third person to see and hold Frog. That meant a lot.

Over the past year, she has been to visit every month or so, despite completing her first year as a doctor and working incredibly long (and stressful) hours. She’s bought presents and cooked meals and listened to my minor moans. She’s also told me to shut up and snapped at me in the way only sisters can.

Today has been another one of those days. As the NLM is away up north on his stag do, I’ve come down to the South Coast to visit Lizzy. Frog, Lizzy and I have spent the day paddling in the sea, eating lunch in a restaurant on the beach and browsing in shops.

The tables have now turned and my little sister is the fashionista in the family. So I will leave laden with cast-off lovely clothes (doctors get paid more than journalists, you know), safe in the knowledge that years of lending are finally being re-paid. My belly will be full with takeaway food and wine and my arms will be light from a day where someone else has held the baby.

So, to my ten year old self I say, “You are lucky you have a sister. It might not feel like it now, while she steals your Take That tape and draws in your diary, but one day you’ll appreciate her. One day she’ll buy you food and wine.”

And to a four year old Lizzy – “Don’t ever let Dad cut your fringe. It’ll look rubbish.”

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*Gasp*

As in, really out. Not just to put the rubbish in the dustbin at the end of the garden. I’ll be in a proper pub with proper adults and proper alcohol and everything. And I can’t wait.

The thing is, this time a year ago I was one of those women. The naive pregnant ones who think everything will return to just the way it was before they were “with child”. “Yeah yeah, I’ll breastfeed – but my baby will take a bottle too,” was one of my favourite mantras. And “As soon as this baby’s out I’ll find time to go out dancing every now and then.”

As if.

Dancing was the last thing on my mind after pushing what felt like a melon through a hole the size of a needle. Granted, it may not be the size of a needle anymore, but that’s what it felt like at the time. And then Frog balked at the sight of any kind of latex, preferring her milk direct from the source.

So dancing and pubs have pretty much taken a back seat over the past year.

Meaning I’ve been mainly wearing these:

In typical over-enthusiastic, I-hardly-ever-go-out-anymore fashion, I will be donning a pair of heels for tonight’s adventures. This is partly because in my head, they give the illusion of turning a 5ft 4″ woman with wobbly thighs into a 5ft 8″ long-legged beauty, and partly because I feel they’ve become rather lonely gathering dust at the back of my wardrobe.

Ah, hello friends:

I have absolutely no doubt I’ll fall over at some point during the evening. It has happened many times before. I also have absolutely no doubt I’ll end up singing at some point, a habit I have been known to do when consuming alcohol in the past.

If the singing starts, it’ll be probably be this little number. It’s a karaoke favourite, which I’ve belted out while standing on a chair in the middle of a pub on, you guessed it, more than one occasion:

[youtube=http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lcOxhH8N3Bo]

So, Emma, Jane and Alice – this is what you’ve let yourself in for this evening. Please don’t stand me up, I’m relying on backing singers for my Bonnie rendition and someone to help me walk in these bloody ridiculous shoes.

This post was born from a tag at Mummy Mummy Mum. Well, two actually, asking me to reveal a) my choice in karaoke song and b) my shoes. So here they are. Now I tag Alice at My Life, My Son, My Way, because I reckon she has good taste in karaoke – and some cracking pairs of shoes.

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Well that does it. As if my cool credentials weren’t at the bottom of the heap already, Kate at Kate Takes 5 has issued another Listography highly likely to make me cringe.

But needs must and if I can do stand up comedy and read the news in my bra, I can own up to some dreadful taste in music.

This week’s Listography demands that we admit to the first five albums we ever owned. So here goes…..

1. Kyle Minogue: Kylie

I went through a phase of actually believing that I was Kylie Minogue. Remember that look she used to sport with the curly hair flowing out of a hat? I adored it. I used to sit in the bath singing I should be so lucky, lucky lucky lucky at the top of my voice. I was five OK? Give me a break.

2. Bonnie Tyler: Super Hits

I’m not apologising for this one. Total Eclipse of the Heart and Holding Out for a Hero? Classic tunes.

3. Take That: Everything Changes

Again, no apologies. You already know how much I love TT (as us fans call them).

4. Red Hot Chilli Peppers: Blood Sugar Sex Magik

Ok, so I realise Take That and the Red Hot Chilli Peppers may be unlikely partners in a music collection, but I acquired this album completely by accident. A boy at school recorded it for me onto cassette when I was eleven. I thought I was desperately cool and painstakingly copied the picture on the front cover.

5. Oasis: (What’s the Story?) Morning Glory

Don’t confuse me with someone who’s got taste. I bought this when I was twelve and decided I was an Indie. I cut my hair into something resembling a wedge of cheese (because I wanted to look like Justine Frischman out of Elastica) and died it brown. Except it didn’t go brown, it went bright red because my cousin sneaked a bit of red food colouring into the mixture to “give it some oomph”.

I persevered with my new image though, and bought a tank top. I then read something about Oasis “cracking the big apple” and, having no idea what that actually meant and becoming a little confused, I proudly told my dad I knew of a new band who were so good they were going to “crack an orange”.

And that was the end of my dalliance with cool. Long live Bonnie Tyler.

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