How can I have a 36 year old brother? I know that takes some of you aback, as you marvel at my ability to retain my youthful appearance. But yes! He is two years older than me, and part of me has always hero-worshipped him. I forget at what point we become middle-aged, but he is still kind of cool.

He has a built-in cool monitor. He knows what is in, and what is out, and has taught me so much about life. His name is John, and he lives in London. (Everybody say Hi, john). He has been visiting here with Lydia, his girlfriend, and it has been a real treat for James and Hannah to have their other uncle here to spoil them.

As a child, I copied everything he did, to the point of idiocy, you know that thing people say… ‘If he told you to jump off a cliff, would you?’ Well, yes. When he was arrested for serving alcohol illegally, I made certain I was too. When he got leglessly drunk and unpopular with the in-crowd at school, I did it as well. He has a knack for pointing out things that are stupid, and I hung on his every word.

Until I met Neen. Then I became more me. We have developed apart for the last seventeen years, and that is a good thing, but we still have so much in common. Of all the people in the world, there is no-one that can understand my experience quite like him. We share a childhood, and a past, and we look to the future based on past experiences.

I discover now that he is actually quite a sensitive guy, that he isn’t the in-control man I used to think he was, and it adds to his personality, rather than takes away from the myth.

James spent the afternoon making up ‘poo’ jokes to tell him, and they appear to share the same scatological sense of humour. Fair enough, so do I. Stick us all in the same room, and say the word ‘fart’, and we will be rolling with laughter, guaranteed. So we burped, laughed and said words like ‘bottom’ and ‘bum’ a lot.

Neen had fun, too, although she was morally obliged to pretend to be disapproving of the poo stuff. I guess someone has to be the adult here. The most fun we had was when James brought out a piece of an old doll of Hannah’s, just the hip section: essentially a disembodied bum. We made the bum drive a car, we threw it in the bin, we dug it out of the bin, and we laughed and laughed and laughed.

Of course, a real severed torso wouldn’t be as funny, but you have to admit, there are so many things you can do with a little plastic butt. (This was all good clean stuff, so don’t let your imagination run too wild.) We told knock-knock jokes, played hide-and-seek, and had another barbecue.

Knock-knock

Who’s there?

Hatch.

Hatch who?

Bless you!

That is James’s only joke at the moment, so repeat ad nauseum.

I prefer:

Knock-knock

Who’s there?

Cows go

Cows go who?

No, silly, Cows go moo, not who…

Now who can’t find that funny?

Bum. Poo. Ha ha Ha.

I promise, this is just a temporary relapse, and when I return, it will be as the decent, upstanding guy you know and love.

Anyway, I love you, John. We’ve been a long way, some of it together, some apart, but I appreciate the man you’ve become, and love your relationship with Lydia. Be strong, mate, and enjoy the world for all its worth. (One day. I pray that you will get to know Jesus, the way I have, but I trust that God will do that in His way, at His time).

(I guess the Lord doesn’t exactly condone bum jokes, but in the context of brotherly love, I hope I am forgiven).