Well Fed and Good Intentions.

My brother Jack and I are both home for Christmas.



He is a very good Baby Brother. And I mean that as much in a I'm-so-pleased-we-are-related-by-blood-forever-and-ever sort of a good as much as I do in terms of being the sort of good-at-fulfilling-the-cliche-of-how-younger-brothers-are-supposed-to-act good. I think boys are just designed that way.



No matter how old we get, some things never change. The rule of 'Shotgun' to decide who rides upfront with Mama is still practiced. We have been known to continue to compete over who can fasten their seatbelt the fastest; operate on a 'one cuts and the other other chooses' basis when sharing any sort of bakery item to ensure that that is fair is indeed, fair; and we still repeatedly declare ourselves the parental favourite in a recapitulated argument that follows the form, "I am," "No, I am," "Noooooo, I AM," etc.





For quite some time Jack has referred to me as 'Shieeda', in reference to some LL Cool J lyrics in which the one the ladies love purrs, "They say her name's Shieeda, you can tell her mama feeds her...". Charming, isn't it? I do, however, prefer that to the 'Loz' he otherwise calls me. I HATE being called Loz.



I don't really have much ammunition to take the piss out of Jack back. Strangely, we seem to know little of his life. He could plausibly be running the whole of the MI6 department from his bedroom for all we know about him. He plays his cards so close to his chest that I can just imagine him talking into his sleeve as he stalks out some terrorist in a Manchester shopping centre, saying important but incomprehensible things about 'building schematics', 'going dark', and 'suspect visual'. I think he might have too much hair to be in Her Majasties service though. The earpieces wouldn't fit properly.



So I intend to interrogate him, this Christmas. Be warned, Jack. There is going to be some serious bonding time. You have been warned.