What can I say about my younger and only sister, Edie? Similarities—we share the same mother. Sometimes we are pleased about this. We share the same hair colour—blond. We both have it cut into a classic bob. I go to a top-of-the-range hairdresser every four weeks and pay eighty-four pounds to get it trimmed back into shape. Edie goes to the hairdresser at the end of her road once a year if she can find the time and has her hair hacked back into shape with Black & Decker hedge-trimmers by a woman with a blue rinse called Marjorie for five quid. I spend hours blow-drying and straightening mine—when I’m not using my hairdryer on my domestic appliances, of course. I’m not even sure that Edie possesses a hairdryer. I like to consider myself immaculately groomed. My toenails have not been their natural colour since I was fifteen. I wear make-up every day—even Sunday. And even if I’m only going to wash the car. Edie gave up her battle with cosmetics years ago. The last time my sister wore make-up was when she stole my No 17 Glitter Stick to wear to the school disco. No, I tell a lie. She did wear make-up at her wedding, but only because I forced her to by telling her I wouldn’t be seen dead as her bridesmaid if she didn’t. I don’t think she’s ever had a close encounter with anything as glamorous as nail varnish. The sickening thing about Edie is that she is still extraordinarily good-looking without having to try—which is just as well because she doesn’t. But there are very good reasons why at the tender age of twenty-nine Edie doesn’t have time for the vanities of the flesh. Six of them. Yes, in this age of falling birth rates and increasing infertility, my sister and her husband have somehow managed to buck the trend and produce six children. Her family nickname is Rabbit.

I park my poor battered car outside her house and, clutching my overnight bag, fight through the increasingly strong gusts of wind to the front door. Edie lives just across town from me in a house that’s far too small for eight people. Despite that, they’ll still find a space for me—even if I have to sleep on the dining-room table. I haven’t phoned to tell her I’m coming, but it doesn’t matter because she never goes out. I can hear shouting as I ring the doorbell. Edie opens the door. As usual she is sans make-up and with wild hair. She sighs heavily and kisses me on the cheek. ‘Welcome to the madhouse.’