‘If my sister’s kidney fails I won’t donate one of mine’

Sorry, my sister has mucked up her life, and if her only kidney fails I’m not going to donate one of mine to save her.

When I was ten years old and my sister Philippa was eight, we became “blood sisters”.

Sharing the same genetic parents wasn’t enough, we decided; we needed to cut our wrists and mingle our blood if we wanted to be real sisters.

Using a rusty penknife of the kind that would have health and safety officers in hysterics these days, we opened our veins, rubbed our wrists together, and swore everlasting love and loyalty until the end of time.

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