The best depiction of a sisterly relationship is in Phoebe Waller-Bridge’s Fleabag, when Fleabag is trying on an outfit, to which Boo responds with:
‘Oh no. That is absolutely hideous. It does nothing for you.’
Only to realise that they are, in fact, Fleabag’s own clothes. Boo’s mouth opens in horror, then laughs raucously. I am aware that Boo and Fleabag are not sisters but nothing encapsulates having sisters more than this moment for two reasons:
1) If your sister buys a new item of clothing, you wouldn’t necessarily realise. Boo and Fleabag are exceptionally close – Boo would know Fleabag’s entire wardrobe, to the point of actually not noticing. This may sound counterintuitive, but your sister’s appearance is like wallpaper. Once it’s there, you don’t really notice it. One dirty hoodie blends into the next. However, if they buy a new top and point it out, you know the exact reasoning behind it like that cerulean speech in The Devil Wears Prada. If it was not a hideous top, you might find yourself saying ‘oh that’s nice it’s like an adult version of that cunty Boden top you wore to Cornwall 11 years ago that you dribbled gravy down.’
2) However, Boo laughs, which brings us to point 2. Your closest friend would probably laugh a bit, then apologise. With sisters, points are given for creative insults, such as saying that the knock-off Isabel Marants your sister bought look like old-fashioned callipers, or that her new handbag looks like a colostomy bag.
The point is, you know them too well. Fortunately or unfortunately, nothing they could ever do would surprise you. Tonight, I know that one of my sisters will go to B&M to buy strawberry pencils on her way home from school. Once home, she will spend the evening with her friends, scouring Facebook for their teachers and laughing at their choice of wedding dress or a picture of them on a scooter. Meanwhile, the other one will do a hair mask, play her violin, and harass 12-year-olds on Dress To Impress because they don’t understand her conceptual 1990s Versace-inspired look. Therefore, you’d assume that we’d run out of things to say. We clearly know each other far too well, and anyone’s new news is quickly devoured. It isn’t like we can just get another sister…
Meet Skog. Skog smells. Skog has the posture of an underfilled beanbag. Skog’s head can be tucked into his loose neck to activate “foreskin mode.” Skog is also a large brown bear from Ikea. But Skog has taken on a life far exceeding his baggy frame. While I know exactly what my sisters have been up to, I am endlessly surprised by the antics of Skog and his ever-developing backstory (‘Skoglore’). Unsurprisingly, for a bear, Skog loves peanuts and salmon but hates PE. When Skog is upset, he sits on the shed roof. Skog is also sixty-five in bear years but is still in school because he has failed his SATs* fifty-five times. This is a shame because it has been Skog’s greatest ambition to do a GCSE in Business ever since he was a young bear on a farm in Siberia. He pulled the plough on the farm until he moved to Sweden to become a barista. One day, after drinking all the peanut syrup, he fell asleep in a truck and ended up in Bristol Ikea. Nowadays, he studies for his SATs and has a Saturday job on Masterchef helping contestants make red wine reductions.
Skoglore is an inexhaustible topic. Each addition fleshes out his intricate personality and each suggestion probes at the contents of that flaccid, brown head. While Skog roams my house, our conversations are replete with debates over his backstory, his interests and whether he might be gay.
While Skog is an inexhaustible source of joy, guests may say that ‘Skogmania’ has gone too far. You cannot converse with members of my household if you do not acknowledge Skog because most conversations turn back to him, such as:
‘I’ve been thinking about holidays-‘
‘We will have to get Skog vacuum packed. He’s had too many peanuts. He won’t fit in a suitcase.’
Or:
‘Your grandma’s asking if she can help cook Christmas din-‘
‘No, she can’t, Skog’s doing it. He’s been practising his turkey basting.’
To make progress in either of these conversations, you cannot deny Skog’s existence. ‘Skog is an inanimate bear who will not stop us from going on holiday’ is not an acceptable, nor productive response. Instead, you would have to say something like:
‘Bears don’t like sand, and the sea water would dry out his skin. We don’t want him to get dandruff again.’
Or:
‘Why doesn’t Skog focus on the pudding? He is very skilled at making choux pastry.’
By engaging with Skog in this way, you will gain our respect and be able to participate in conversation. However, Skog is not just a topic of conversation; Skog has become a mode of communication. On the group chat I have with my sisters, I am often sent pictures of Skog instead of any actual life updates. If Skog is upside down and wearing a pair of pants, for example, my sisters have had a good week and the mood is giggly. If Skog is slumped on the sofa, head lolling, feet disappearing under a furry potbelly, everyone is tired and ready for half-term. If it is the middle of the day and Skog is playing the violin, one of my sisters has not been out of the house enough and I should probably call her.
Ultimately, Skog is a loveable rascal, and we are pleased to have him around. While at Oxford, I miss the constant lore updates and am (somewhat) delighted to return home to find him on my bed, legs akimbo and wearing my pyjamas. Really, Skog is a representation of a bizarre but wonderful sisterly bond, where we refuse to become bored of each other, despite being a little cruel about each other’s clothes. I miss you, Skog! Lay off the peanuts.
*Exams at the end of year 6 in the UK. Poor Skoggy can never remember what a quadrilateral shape is.