My Ex-Step-Brother

Steve is my ex-step-brother. His father's second wife (of three) was my mother. They were married for twelve years and though we're not related, we have a little sister in common. How's that for dysfunctionality?

Steve emigrated to Sydney with his partner, Scott at the end of January. They're renting a flat at McMahon's Point with stunning views across the harbour to the bridge and opera house. Scott works at Circular Quay. He takes the ferry to work. Steve works from home, which entails a long lie-in. These guys have it made.

I hadn't seen him for nine years. He looks exactly like my little sister, minus the blue eyeshadow.

"Well, you look more and more like your Dad. And before you say it, I look more and more like my mother, I know".

We stood on their balcony taking in the view and promising to return the favour with our balcony's "ocean cameo", which doesn't have quite the same ring. This is the sort of flat you get for $700 per week. For a minute we considered terminating our lease and moving to Kirribilli but then we remembered that although the views are great, there's nothing much there for families.

And it's $700 a week.

We had dinner (and lots of Hunter Valley Shiraz) at Thai-riffic on Blues Point Road (hence the squiffy photo taken with the crappy camera) before taking the ferry back across the harbour to Circular Quay. We sat out on deck as the boat steamed under the twinkling lights of the harbour bridge, gazing up at the stars and the underside of the bridge as we passed. It was one of those "oh dear, we are going to emigrate, aren't we?" moments that scares the life out of me. It was great to meet up with them, great to share dinner and conversation with common ground.

This morning I woke with a hangover. In fact, I was sick. I haven't been sick through drink for probably seven or eight years. Darren gave me some special tablets and removed Ella to the ball pool at Marrickville so I could sit around in my U2 teeshirt looking rough. Never again.