Two Little Boys

Within minutes of his arrival on Friday evening an almighty crash emanated from the downstairs bathroom of our familial home. The sound of ornament breakage so frequently heard during my younger brother Ian’s tarries south from Gateshead to Yorkshire you’d think he arrives accompanied by a crockery shattering theme tune.

Knowing our kid had smashed an item in the washroom, living up to his reputation as a clumsy but loveable oaf, this latest episode of pottery ‘homicide’ manifested uncontrollable guffawing from my buddy Sarah. The Ossett lass humoured greatly at experiencing first hand my bro’s notoriety for ornament massacre.

Moments later Ian sheepishly returned from the bathroom in a highly apologetic state. His repeated contrition after damaging a crockery toothbrush holder beyond repair augmenting Sarah and my amusement levels to an even higher plateau.

Interspersed between Sazington and my chortles, I pointed out he’d no need to apologise to me. After all, it was our late mother’s property he’d smashed, consequently the stricken trinket was as much his as mine.

As it turned out, this incident was just the start of a Friday evening riddled with instances of our Ian’s heavy-handiness. Behaviour which rather unsurprisingly gets worse in parallel with the more bowls of loud mouth soap he imbibes. Beer and wine consumption which could ordinarily be described as quite considerable.

As usual, my siblings arrival at our late parents home on the Leeds/Wakey borders saw him morph into a Norman Wisdomesque gift of clumsiness which just kept giving. Amongst these faux pas’ knocking over two glasses of pinot Grigio, along with a rather unceremonious stumble where he suffered a glancing head blow on the marble fire surround.

Mercifully, during the latter episode, the sibling two years my junior didn’t seriously hurt himself when his bonce and the hard surface forgathered. As Ian, our sister Helen and me recently accepted an offer for this property, it was also a relief the fireplace escaped collateral damage.

As is his penchant when we indulge in boozy doos, around 9pm when our kid reaches 10 on the Oliver Reed Pissed Scale, his hybrid northern accent (similar to mine) gets discarded and he employs a Geordie accent so broad it’s practically incomprehensible.

Even I, who was raised in the north east of England, was unable to follow his drink fuelled dialect on Friday; patois which became so extreme it’s as though he was speaking in Tongues. Yours truly endeavoured to act as interpreter for Yorkshire lass Sarah, but struggled to relay the meaning of Ian’s words “Sshhhushta Whusta!”, “Ayest as weel.” and “Nar gruss, man!

Consequently, as our kid was unable to recall the previous late evening scenes on Saturday morning, Friday’s final conversational exchanges between Ian, Sarah and me will forever remain a mystery wrapped within an enigma.

As usual after a skinful, at Saturday’s reveille Ian miraculously woke minus a hangover. His constitution, which affords him the luxury of waking fully refreshed a mere six/seven hours after being incapable of speaking, truly amazes me. I’d have been wiped out for over a day!

Saturday evening, as dispensation for starting packing up ready to move out of our late parent’s home, Ian prepped/cooked a life affirming Thai curry. A treat followed by Malcolm and Maggie Strachan’s two eldest offspring igniting the chiminea and spending an evening in the garden. Time where we were joined by our good buddies Bluetooth Speaker, Heineken Lager and Pinot Grigio.

A more restrained evening was had on Saturday. With a backdrop of hypnotic wood flames, as dusk got ever closer Ian and me enjoyed a clambake of laughter, listening to favourite refrains and being fleeced out of snacks by the dogs. The latter displaying a formerly unknown fondness for Seabrooks ready salted crisps.

A great weekend making more fond memories with my lifelong best buddy!

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