Hurricane Ian – The Sequel

After this weekend there’s a chance I can kiss goodbye to the deposit I posted to cover against damage to the apartment I’m currently renting close to Wakefield city centre. Jeopardy of me being £650 outta pocket at my tenancy conclusion introduced in the shape of a four day visit from my younger brother Ian.

Our kid not possessing the capacity to destroy buildings like his hurricane namesake, which last weekend tragically wreaked so much havoc across Florida. However, an upcoming life event forecast strongly predicts Hurricane Ian Strachan will devastate his elder siblings crockery, china and furnishings with equally destructive vigour.

You may feel moved to point out that as I own the items above it won’t jeopardise the return of my bond. Not that you’ll have known my new abode was unfurnished, or indeed that I owned all fixtures and fittings within the gaff…… And if you did, can I politely ask you to stop stalking me!!

My real fears about loss of my deposit manifest from his penchant of spilling wine on carpets or soiling paintwork with his trademark cloddishness. Incidents which may land yours truly a weighty bill. Augmenting the pain consequential of inevitable hangover headaches which also come hand in hand when my accident prone brother visits.

I once joked in essay that our Ian’s clumsiness was immediately apparent during his home birth, in 1960’s Leeds; an episode which saw him knock over a midwifes cup of tea. Clearly, a throwaway fictional jape on my part, but to those who know him well it perhaps wouldn’t be a scenario that was too fantastical.

Ian arrived yesterday by train from Newcastle. Under the cosh rail services not only hampered by sporadic rail strikes in the coming days, but also the jeopardy of carriages being out of action due to my ponderous offspring inadvertently damaging seating, doors and/or racking…….. Or perhaps rendering the toilet door so dysfunctional it now intermittently opens and closes without intervention, in the process humiliating a hapless bathroomuser.

Mercifully, and perhaps somewhat surprisingly, evening one of our kid’s stay went off without incident. My kith and kin’s only faux pas playing out when he spilled a splash of pinot Grigio over his shorts during a misguided attempt an unsteady legged elevation from the sofa.

I began penning this missive as part of a writing workshop. Zoom sessions I’ve begun attending in an attempt to mix with likeminded people in a bid to grow as a writer.

Prior to joining this morning’s clambake I felt it prudent to knock on my our kid’s bedroom door, mentioning this attendance to my capricious sidekick. GJ Strachan particularly keen to avoid a situation in which Ian wondered past me in just his undies (or worse) to make a cup of tea, belch or break wind (or all three) in full view of fellow attendees.

I left the workshop at around 10am in decent spirits with the first two hundred (unedited) words of this piece in place. Brio levels augmented further by the fact my brother had adhered to warnings about making an unclad cameo appearance within the Zoom session.

At this juncture of the day, Ian’s now showering while his elder brother adds to his literary back catalogue……. Oh no, what the bloody hell’s that crashing sound emanating from the bathroom!!….. Gotta go.

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