My sister worries me, sometimes. In most areas of her life, she’s got it together far more than most, but in others she shows a disturbing level of neglect. For example, she’s completely useless when it comes to maintaining her car, which she has literally never had serviced despite having a six-figure salary. I mean… what?

This is particularly concerning given that she’s going to be doing the very long drive out here for Christmas this year. I tried to talk her out of it, but our parents had other ideas. To them, my sister can do no wrong – she’s the golden child, and they’re sure she’s not as behind on her log book service schedule as I say she is. I simply must be over exaggerating. That’s how much they know. As if she’d tell them! She’s great at concealing her devil-may-care attitude, I’ll give her that.

It’s frustrating, though, because it means I have to be the worry-wart. Well, maybe I’ll just stop worrying about it, quit badgering my sister to book a car service, and let her drive for 20 hours on those worn-down tyres of hers. Let her find someone willing to do wheel repair close to Adelaide when her misaligned wheels finally blow out halfway across the state. Let her explain to our parents why she’s spending Christmas in a motor inn because her battery carked it in the middle of nowhere.

I say all that, but in reality I can’t just ditch my concern at the drop of a hat. It doesn’t really work that way, does it? At the end of the day, I care about my sister and don’t want her to be driving around in an unsafe car. I just get annoyed because I want her to take responsibility for it, like she does with her career. Honestly, I don’t know how someone can be a top brain surgeon and treat their car like this. It doesn’t make any sense.