he aint heavy (he’s my dickhead)

Brother called the landline telephone yesterday evening and, given that we hadn’t spoken in a short while – not this side of his birthday – we opened with jolly greetings.  He thanked me for my gift of an Xbox controller, another way to exert his dominance over his wife, ho-ho-ho.

We were both bound for our childhood home for the Easter weekend – although his stay would only be a brief, lip-service visit on the way to the more oft frequented in-laws in Wales.  He would of course bring his family entourage and I would bring myself.

“Mum has this idea of taking the kids to this thing,” he explained.  Mum had told me about it too.  It sounded like a nice idea.  “It’s one of these typical things,” he continued, a patronising exasperation cutting into his voice, “when she, you know.. gets an idea in her head of a Thing To Do with them.”

“And what’s wrong with that?” I asked, genuinely curious, not seeing where he was coming from.  She loves spending time with his kids.  Why shouldn’t she?

“Oh nothing, nothing,” he replied, suddenly defensive.

“Right,” I said, thinking him a dickhead, remembering how he always gives the impression of knowing our family much better than we know ourselves, like we’re all his inventions, without individual consciousness.

“Oh, by the way,” he said, changing the subject in his masterful controlling way, as if this next thing was much more important: “can you bring your Xbox back at the weekend?”

“Ugh, do I have to?”

I find it tedious, unwiring everything, wrapping it up, packaging it in a box, connecting it up to our parents’ haphazardly set-up television, doing the return trip – particularly when I’m not nearly as bothered about playing the damn thing as he is and he’ll often revel in his victories like he did when we were kids.  For someone so insanely busy with a wife, two kids and an important, high-pressured job, his Xbox form is always good.

“Well no, you don’t HAVE to,” he replied, employing his well-used haughty patronising exasperated tone again.  I was clearly being impossible.  He was being a dickhead.

“Alriiight,” I jabbed back with my own patronising, deliberately unfazed tone.

“Right, well, I’ll see you at the weekend,” he said.

He’d had enough.  I had too.  It was a sub-three minute call.

“Right, bye then.”

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3 Responses to he aint heavy (he’s my dickhead)

  1. Redbookish says:

    Ahhhh, siblings. I’m lucky — I have lots, and we get on. But I’m the bossy eldest. Dorothy Rowe opines that sibling order and sibling relationships are as formative as parent-child relationships in our psychological make up. I think she’s onto something there!

    • boshsuckled says:

      Remember you saying you had lots but didn’t know you’re the bossy eldest. It sort of figures.. 😉 I loosely get on with mine and have long been of the belief that his domineering extrovert character was more influential on mine than those of our parents. Although it can also sound like a cowardly excuse.

      Also, one of my best friends is the older of two brothers and their relationship absolutely contradicts my belief about older / younger siblings / pecking orders and parental attention. It’s all contentious.

  2. Redbookish says:

    I Am Not Bossy! Huh! Just my sibs think I am. It’s them succumbing to stereotypes. We didn’t necessarily all get on until our thirties (there’s only 6 an a half years between the 5 of us); now we are generally in conspiracy against our parents’ latest idiocies. So it can/does get better.

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