My younger brother has always been Mum and Grans favourite, their golden boy. They absolutely adored him, while I lingered in the background like a poorly-lit stage prop. He always got the best slice, the finest toys, the tastiest sweets, the fluffiest scones, the juiciest berries I never got a look-in. If anyone was forgotten, you could bet your boots it was me. I was the one tidying up after him, making his bed, and rustling up his breakfast. It drove me round the bend. Honestly, he treated me as his personal butler I spent my youth running after him, fulfilling his every whim.
Mum would say, Hes the man of the house, you shouldnt meddle in mens affairs. I suppose thats how some English mums raise their sons! And later, everyones amazed when their wives are miserable or wonder why men turn into mini-tyrants.
He couldnt even boil an egg, bless him. Mum and Grans behaviour irritated me to bits. Mum divorced Dad because he treated her poorly, showed her no respect. Then she went and raised another bloke just like him. I rebelled from time to time, but my protests were silenced quick as a flash, and everything rolled on as usual.
When I was slogging through revision for my exams in sixth form, it was a nightmare. Mum and Gran rang me every five minutes: Have you fed your brother? Dash home, hes starving while you mess about with nonsense. Your brothers the priority. So Id have to drop everything, sprint home, feed him, and help him with his homework, as if I were his nanny.
I was actually a fab student. When preparing for my A-Levels, Gran sat me down and said, Why on earth do you need education? You should get married, have kids, look after your husband, tend the home. After finishing university, I packed my bags and left. Id had enough of babysitting my brother. Mum and Gran were fuming Gran had even quit her job so she could look after the little lord and wasnt amused.
Ah, the wonders of family life in England!
