Building Lego with my sister is a simple joy in a world that feels broken
Perhaps it’s childish to build tiny plastic plants when it feels like everything’s crumbling around us, but what good are we if we fall apart too?
Lego time started by accident. One Friday evening last year, my sister drove over to collect me for dinner after a long, tiring week. She brought with her two Lego boxes, an uncharacteristically whimsical purchase made while out buying books. There was a small Wes Anderson-looking typewriter for me and a record player for herself.
We were both too drained to go out but neither of us wanted to be the one to flake. Half-jokingly, I suggested staying home to build the cute Lego sets together instead. Her Dr. Martens were off before I could finish my sentence.
Related content
We vented about the state of the world as we sorted through the pieces, but with our phones forgotten, the conversation softened. My attempts to wing it without the instructions went predictably wrong, which gave us something to laugh about. Before long, the frustrations we carried gave way to quiet contentment. It was unexpected and oddly perfect.
Brick by brick, it started to feel like we were protecting our sanity. Busy hands; no reaching for small screens for a quick hit. Better still, we felt no desire to. Being actively present felt like a small act of resistance.
Then, somehow, without a word, these tandem brick-building sessions became a monthly event.
Lately, small, deliberate joys have started to feel less like indulgence and more like survival. Notifications casually ping our phones with horrifying headlines, followed by mundane emails that still need a timely reply. The emotional whiplash has become routine, a surreal loop of absorbing escalating threats one minute and carrying on as if everything is fine the next. In that context, sitting on the sofa building tiny plastic plants might seem trivial, but it serves a purpose. What good are we to anyone if we fall apart too?
That’s why, from now on, I’ll be dedicating this column to the small pleasures in life. The simple things that bring a bit of joy and take the edge off, even if only for a while.
The pink and white Lego typewriter I made sits on my shelf between my favourite books, catching my eye throughout the day. When things feel particularly overwhelming, I find myself reaching for it, taking it apart piece by piece before building it back up again. It’s a simple, repetitive process, but that’s part of the appeal. There’s a clear beginning, middle and end. A set of instructions that, if actually followed, results in something behaving as it should. In an era that rarely offers that kind of neat resolution, it feels cathartic.
My sister and I pick Lego sets for each other, within a strict budget of £20, usually second hand. The choice of Lego is almost as fun as building it. There are risks involved, like accidentally birthing new superstitions to inflict on your already superstitious family. Sets related to future travel are now banned. Apparently, I jinxed my sister’s trip down south by giving her a Lego postcard of London a few days before she left, only for all the trains to be cancelled due to a fire at Glasgow Central station. I didn’t know I was that powerful, but better safe than sorry.
The best part is that after each session I’m left with a small, slightly ridiculous totem of the time we spent doing this. A typewriter. A toucan. A spider we both regret. They’re not particularly useful, but we keep them around anyway. Each one tied to a different evening, a funny story, what we were talking about, what we were trying not to talk about, how we felt by the end of it. A pile of loose plastic bricks ending up meaning more than they should.
I love walking into my sister’s living room and seeing her garden of Lego flowers lining the windowsills and shelves. They sit nestled among other treasured items she’s collected over the years, bright colours cutting through her otherwise monochrome space in a way that may appear surprising, given she’s usually viewed as the sensible one. But to me the contrast perfectly reflects the goofy sister I know.
The brick-by-brick method might not be profound, but it helps more than a lot of things right now. Sometimes the only thing to do when living in a world of distraction is to find something better to be distracted by.
