Martin has worn down my defences

My older, adopted sister came to stay. She suffers from peripheral neuropathy secondary to diabetes and is registered disabled. It’s a worry watching her negotiate the cliff path and the 12 stone steps to the front door with her stick, but she adores it here. Since reversing her insulin-dependent diabetes with an extreme fasting keto diet, her mobility has improved and she no longer uses a mobility scooter.

Obesity and diabetes killed her twin brother five years ago this week. He was 62. First he partially lost his eyesight, then sensation in his feet and fingers, and finally his legs. Anthony was a kind soul: a hardworking mechanical engineer who loved his family. When we were younger he and his wife would come to visit for a few days and he’d do blokey stuff such as checking the tyres, radiator and lights on my car and mending things in the house. Even when we were wee he had endless patience for his annoying ginger sister: when I was a baby, pushing my pram round the farmhouse courtyard for hour after tedious hour and later teaching me to play football, fire a bow and arrow, climb trees and shoot an airgun. He was strong, the best gymnast and cricketer in his class and I’ve never seen anyone throw a stone further than he could – or laugh as hard at my attempts. He’s one of the reasons I exercise a lot and occasionally challenge my daughters and pals to arm wrestling tournaments.

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We don’t have much in common, my sister and I, apart from our tragic, weird and abusive childhood, but we have great affection for one another.