My sister phoned me earlier this week as she prepared to pack her suitcase ready to head home from her three week September break in the States.

“I thought I’d better ring because The Mother said you’ve been missing me,” she announced smugly as I answered the call.

“I didn’t say I’d been missing you. I said I’d been missing your help in looking after The Mother, which is quite a different thing,” I pointed out.

“What do you mean ‘looking after me’?” asked The Mother, who I’d quite forgotten was in the next room. “You haven’t done anything to look after me.”

“I’ve looked after you and nursed you through surgery, while she’s been sunning herself in Florida,” I said.

“It’s hardly major surgery. I’ve only had my carpal tunnel done,” said The Mother, waving her hand around dramatically.

“Well it seemed like major surgery when I had to take you to the hospital and sit with you in the waiting room and explain to the nurse that a blood pressure reading of ‘168 over something’ is not really ‘quite good for you’!” I snapped back.

“I told you I always get the numbers mixed up and I was a little bit stressed at being moments away from major…ish surgery!” replied the Mother.

“And I’ve cooked dinner for you and driven you everywhere for the past ten days,” I added warming to my theme.

“I’ve appreciated the cooking, but in fairness the surgeon told me I could drive after two days but you’ve refused to let me have the car keys” The Mother snapped back.

“I wasn’t going to let you drive around and possibly not be in full control of the car. I am not having my sister say that I broke you when she was away on holiday. I’d never hear the end of it!”

“I am still here…and on a TransAtlantic call,” interjected my sister from her sunlounger.

As we spoke a loud crash, followed by a painful howl came from the other room where the housemate was finishing some laundry.

“What the heck was that?” asked my sister more unnerved than she had been on any theme park roller coaster.

“I caught my thumb in the clothes airer,” came back the pained response from the housemate.

“Are you ok?” I asked, fearful of another session at the hospital before I’d completely recovered from my vigil with The Mother.

“No…it really hurts,” she replied. “It’s your fault!”

“How can it be my fault?” I asked. “I’m not anywhere near you.”

“I’m scared of this drier so I normally just let it collapse itself but it makes an horrendous noise and you were talking on the phone and I didn’t want to disturb you so I tried to put it down properly and it closed on my finger, so it’s your fault!”

From the other end of the line I could hear my sister chuckling.

“ I know you always say that  the housemate blames you for everything that goes wrong in your house, but I’ve never actually heard her in action before,” she laughed.

“I don’t blame her for everything,” replied the housemate nursing her injured thumb.

“Only for the things which are her fault…which is almost everything,” she added with a nod.