You guys. My lovely, magical, internet unicorn warriors. I am so very sorry that I dropped the ball last Friday and didn’t post: I left all of my packing and organising to the last minute, and assumed that after I’d finished there would still be minutes to spare between having packed and hauling myself and all of my floral-patterned, knitting needle-spiked crap back to uni. But alas, we all know how that turned out.
SO. I do hope that you enjoy my exceptionally belated Friday post, re: sibling pseudonyms.
I have mentioned before that I have two brothers. Little Bear Grylls is 10, and the-brother-formerly-known-as-the-Music-Snob is 16. I promised a little while ago that I would actually put some thought into giving him a better internet name for whenever I refer to him on GTN, and trust me, he gets up to/says some weird shit, so it’s worth having something ready to go. From now on, my dear brother, the twitchy, nocturnal grower of hilariously sporadic facial hair shall be known as Special K. Like the breakfast cereal and the narcotic. Because he is full of fibre, and too much of him will turn your brain to soup. Also, his name starts with “K,” and he is very, very special.
To wit: my family drove to visit some relatives for Christmas lunch a few years ago. In Australia, if you don’t have to pass through three small towns and a vast expanse of farmland, you’re living too close to your extended family. Too close, I tell you. Also, if you manage to cover that distance on a public holiday without passing any police vehicles performing random breath tests, there has been a murder. Or an exceptionally large Christmas domestic.* Or both.
As we rounded a bend, about halfway to our destination, a friendly, if a little heat exhausted copper flagged us down. Dad obligingly slowed down and huffed into the straw. He stopped first, obviously. The police man was friendly, he had a good old chat to Mum and Dad while he waited for the reading and wished us kids a merry Christmas. He may have had tinsel strapped somewhere on his person, in an effort to try and make the whole experience a little more festive. Dad got the all clear, we returned the police man’s greetings and wished him a lovely day. In the split second before he turned away, Special K, who was sitting behind Dad, leaned forward and poked his head into the space between the seat and the rolled down window. Special K smiled at the police man. The police man smiled back, how nice, he must of thought, the little boy wants to wish me a merry Christmas. At this point, K couldn’t have been more than 11 or so, and looked, to the uninitiated, positively cherubic. He grinned wider, and spoke, just loud enough to be heard over the radio;
“Remember this face.”
I told you he was Special.
*These incidents can usually be attributed to extended families living to near to one another. When that proximity is exacerbated around a turkey and a bucket of prawns in 40-degree heat, shit is going to go down.