Deborah Hill Cone
Meet Annie, who is 18. She plays the saxophone, speaks fluent French, she’s a whiz at 500 and — surprise plot twist — don’t get into an argument with her. You’ll lose. Trust me on that. She’s my niece.
She’s a remarkable young woman in other ways. She has grown up looking after her profoundly disabled brother Claude. I don’t know how she can stay so patient with him.
Even when he tore up her babysitting savings (he might be autistic but he can tear bank notes), spilt an entire box of drinking chocolate in her bed and threw her phone in the swimming pool. Annie shrugs: “It got Claudified.”
Annie has won awards as a gifted artist but since graduating from high school last year, I’m sad to say she’s really let me down.
This year she went to Dunedin to study medicine. I know! You try to corrupt their young minds and bring them up to challenge the bourgeois status quo and what thanks do you get? They want to be a doctor.
I suppose I’ll forgive her. Because she wants to become a doctor to help kids like Claude. And first year health science is hell — like Survivor in duffel coats. In her halls, only one out of 100 got into med school under general admission last year.
Anyway, Annie has been working like a fiend. It’s tough but you tell yourself if you work your guts out you have just as much chance to get in as the next sleep-deprived zombie.
In fact, it’s more like Team New Zealand starting the America’s Cup one race behind.
And this is where as the protective aunty, I get all lioness-growly on her behalf. (Sorry Annie, but surely you’re used to Aunty Deborah being a public embarrassment by now).
Because it turns out getting into the