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December 17, 2010 · 12:32 pm

My first thoughts of my brother

I was an only child for the first 5 years of my life. I had all the attention, all the toys, all the devotion. The only thing I didn’t have was a sibling. I remember my friends telling me how ‘lucky’ I was not to have a sibling and how much they envied me – I don’t know if I wanted one desperately or not, to be honest I think I didn’t mind either way.

Then my mum fell pregnant and my world changed. I remember being SO excited she was pregnant and when she finally had him I couldn’t wait for him to be older so that we could play together and laugh together and  I could have someone who could relate to me in my little world who wasn’t an adult. Boy (excuse the pun) was I wrong.

From about 2 years old my brother was somewhat of a pain in my life – probably because I am ‘generally right’, have strong opinions and want to do things MY way – much like most people I suppose. Anyway, back to the topic at hand. Growing up, nine times out of ten I couldn’t stand my brother. Not only did I not like him very much, I don’t think I loved him very much either. When I went away on an exchange year I’m not even sure if I sent him one email. He was just there, a being, someone who “got in the way.”

I think what drives me mad the most is that he takes each day as it comes; doesn’t have a  care in the world and his friends are more important to him than his family. I see what this does to my father, to my mother and to me. I would say we are a close family (which seems a contradiction of terms) but I think he thinks he is the ‘outsider’, and he’s not.

As I have gotten older it often pains me that he and I aren’t that close – I thought our bond was growing stronger – especially when he went away for a year – but now I’m not that sure. When we fight, we fight like we’re arch enemies; he still doesn’t listen and I want to strangle him more often than not.  On the other end of that scale, he does sometimes take advice, opens up with his girlfriend woes and will be there like a shot when I’m in trouble.

He is such a personable lovely young man when he isn’t showing off with his friends, whingeing or bragging and generally being a brat.  I see all of us, his family, trying to ‘change him’; ‘make him more responsible’ and ‘tread on egg shells so as not to disturb the peace’. It’s quite ridiculous really.

I wish I had bothered to get to know my brother all of those years ago – perhaps I would have some insight into how he conducts his life. But I can’t live life on “what ifs”.

I’m still trying to rebuild a relationship with someone that I never really got to know, and it is so difficult sometimes that I wonder if it’s worth it – especially when it doesn’t seem to be reciprocated. I will keep trying though because one thing I do know for sure, the more I do get to know my brother, the more I not only love him but quite like him too.

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December 10, 2010 · 8:30 am

My First Tribute to the Man in My Life

My grandmother believes that a woman’s value is determined by her ability to find a good husband.  My mother was brought up by threats that her behaviour would drive away men and leave her a spinster, like her pitiful aunts.    My mother relays these stories with a combination of scorn and amusement, but still has been happily married to my wonderful father for 32 years.

I have had no such luck in my love life.  The plan was to go to varsity, meet The One and spend the rest of my life discussing literature with a gorgeous, rich man who has a cute smile and a naughty sense of humour.  But my relationships have always been… complicated, and ended with a fine combination of heart trampling and dream crushing.  It’s scary out there.

I’ve recently started dating a lovely guy – so I’m right back on that road to destruction – and maybe one day I’ll write a similar tribute to him if he can withstand my demanding chocolate addiction and learn to bring me tea in the mornings.  But today I write to thank the man who has consistently been the best person in my life – the man who from my very first day has been everything in the world to me.

My brother was four when I was born and had, for months of my mother’s pregnancy, been carrying around a stick he called his sister.  I think he knew from the outset that this whole brother thing was something he could be good at.

I was spoilt growing up – with home-made bed time stories and helping me to dress me paper dolls (he drew the line at Barbies) and games of marco-polo and hide-and-go-seek when he was far too old to be enjoying them.    I remember every single time he scolded me – when I didn’t say “thank you” to someone for a lift; when I was rude to my mother;  and when I got my first hickey at the tender age of 13.  In high school and varsity he was a typical protective brother, but even when I acted like it annoyed me, really it just made me feel special.

I know that if he could he would protect me from the whole world, but last year I got cancer and no amount of shouting or threatening was going to change that.  So instead, he learnt everything there was to know about my illness and my treatment.  He spent half the year in Johannesburg with me, and half the year on the other side of the country at home with his job and his girlfriend.   He sat with me through hours of chemo; he lay with me as I fell asleep; he did my dishes and my laundry; he read me books on Roman Law; he played endless games of scrabble with me even though his spelling is atrocious; he reminded me to take my temperature every morning and every night, even if he wasn’t with me and had to call.  He held me when I was crying, but most of the time he did a great job of making me laugh.

So today I say thank you to the man who saved my sanity and just may have saved my life – as if I didn’t love you enough already.

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December 9, 2010 · 9:38 am

The First Time I Was Caught in the Nick

A man sits high, high above Cape Town. His feet swing gently metres and metres above the ground. He feels the stiff pull of his life line over his shoulder, it rubs against his collar bone. The harness is tight, secure, strong. His bum complains about being confined to this wooden plank of a seat. His balls have given up by now. A bead of sweat runs slowly down his temple. He is annoyed by the tickle and brushes it away roughly with his forearm.

He looks at the cars, scurrying like rats through the city and then scratches the back of his head, squeezing his fingers under his hard hat. The breeze is most welcome. He opens the top button of his overalls, a tricky feat with his safety gloves on, and lets it wash over his neck and the top of his chest. He takes a deep breath; he can taste the salt and cool of the ocean. The blazing sun is too strong to face for very long. He turns back towards the building and lowers himself by a few feet to start painting the next window frame.

He starts laying on the paint, thick like custard at first and then as it spreads more evenly, like syrup. A movement in the window’s room catches his eye. The pale flesh of a naked buttock. No, two buttocks! A woman’s naked back. “Oh shit” he thinks and freezes.

She is facing the cupboard, her back turned from the window. “She hasn’t seen me” he thinks. Now he’s stuck with the dilemma of either moving away which could draw attention to himself or he could pretend that he hasn’t seen her and just carry on painting. The latter seems totally ridiculous. He’s facing a massive window, looking straight into it like a child standing in front of a sweet shop window. While all of this is flying through his mind he hears a high pitched, “Oh FUCK!” and the woman drops suddenly behind the bed.

Her knees hit the black tiles hard. “Fuckity fuck fuck!” She thinks. She’s not sure if he had seen her or not. She crouches even lower so that her belly and breasts are squashed flat on her knees. There’s no point hiding if your butt is peaking out above the bed. She pauses there for a moment. This is not what she had envisioned.

She thought that living alone meant you could waft about after a bath, perhaps sipping on a glass of wine, moisturize your legs languidly just generally swan about being the essence of femininity. She hadn’t quite done this yet. She had just dived out of the shower and was frantically looking for something to wear because…Oh yes, she was late. “Shit! Fuck!” She whispered.

She can’t stay like this for much longer, she can feel the dust and granules sticking to her shins and she has to get going. “Right. Just do it” she says quietly to herself. If he’s there, she has planned to subtly pull the blanket off the bottom of her bed, cover herself with the grey fleece and retreat to the lounge where her washing is drying. She inches forward on her shins, peaking past the end of the bed. She pushes silently off her big toes for the last centimetre.

The view that fills her windows has never looked more bright or more beautiful. So great and so vast. With the telling hint of a rope running straight down through it.

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