My three sisters had knee replacements on the same day, in the same hospital. The same surgeon made the incisions, the same anaesthetist put them under. The first was at seven in the morning, the next at eight, the last after ten. There was no muddling of the parts, no group discount. Three sisters: two left knees and one right knee. Femurs and tibias cut, worn-out knee joints ground away. Some say it’s a little like carpentry. Three custom-made prostheses hammered and ‘glued’ in place. Three button-like kneecaps stitched on to the front where three patellae were removed. The hospital nurses called the three sisters the ‘Katoomba gang’.

Snow skiing falls as teenagers had torn ligaments meant to stabilise two sisters’ legs. For the third, a rambunctious knock from a flying dog crashed out a knee already wobbly from childhood netball injuries. We’d all been horse riders, had our share of bumps and falls. We all knew how to get back in the saddle. They walked bandy as bronc riders, hobbling, and in constant pain.