Brother time

It's nice to be loved. It's very nice to be loved by a brother. Take it from me, it's beautiful. We might be both 36 but we might as well be 6 years old. Because although life has given us the inevitable knocks, it hasn't changed us one bit. Some people say it's not too healthy. I say it's extremely healthy and that the some people cannot even try and understand what it's like to be a twin and brought up like we were. My mum always said... take care of him. Now, the tables have turned somewhat, he does a lot of care taking. But tell me, can you really help not loving a brother who has found himself in Heathrow's Duty Free section and is in total panic because he has already probably bought half a suitcase for me, and yet wants to buy me something else? So he calls and gives me a tour of what's pretty over the phone. Incredible. And we are 36. And I can relay off anything I want, as expensive as it might be. Because he's not going to scrimp on me. Funny this twin bond. I write about it from time to time. And I rewind back to when I was less than 10 years old. If I was invited to a party, then I would politely and brazenly ask if he could come along. I always got a yes, but if I got a no, then that would have meant no party. He did the same. But I remember him going off somewhere one day. He brought me an ice-cream back with him. A very melted ice cream, but an ice-cream just the same. We had a fab nannu who would take us on long walks and tell us countless of stories, a nannu who always stopped to buy us a treat. One day brother darling had a cough, so nannu reasoned, an ice-cream for me, and sweets for my other half. But wait nannu, no thank you, because since Joseph couldn't have ice-cream then I would have the same as him. I didn't want him to stare longingly at my ice-cream. Such wisdom at perhaps 6 years old. Where did this all come from? Well I guess our upbringing was a big part of it. I remember my mum saying God put us together to watch out for each other. As hard as it might be to believe now, brother darling was quite mentally challenged. So it was always a 'hold his hand, take care of him, watch out for him' kind of thing. And I did. Very fiercely too. Now that he's far from being mentally-challenged, he's held my hand, he's watched out for me. He has done countless things for his sister. But it's not just the upbringing which clinched it. As far as I can remember it was always double. Double trouble, double love. Few people understand it. But I do, and so does he. And so should other people who think they are great at thinking and analyzing. It's so nice having a mate from the word go. It's even nicer still having that mate at 36. Nothing has really changed, we're still the two kids who ran off together. We couldn't be more different, that's the sense of humour of life and it's ok. Because we're still glued to each other. And I can only thank nature, God, for freaking us out. We might be freaks, but freaks can be very loving too.

Farmers

I keep remembering Sex and the City's Charlotte. Charlotte, married to a doctor, having done quite well for herself... lusting after the gardener with whom she shares a passionate kiss. Then I remember Samantha, with her men as diverse as a tonne of Smarties. Yet she too saw a farmer and grabbed him there and then. And as with both women, with plenty of bling bling, I wonder... what did they see in a gardener/farmer? True all muscled up with six packs to throw Farsons into depression, yet all sweaty, grubby, dirty? How did well dressed women like Charlotte and Samantha even go with reach of such people? I never understand this. But I know plenty of women with immaculate houses (because they have a live-in maid), and immaculate nails who lust after the handyman who is wearing a t-shirt with an I Love Malta plastered on it. I can understand that they would probably look better after a good shower, but no, they want them in their sweat. They want them dirty. But in real life these women look all spruced up, carefully made up, wearing tasteful jewellery and shoes, with bags to match. So for them it must be just a fantasy, and it's a bonus when they get to act on their fantasy. But if a fantasy is something like a dream, something which you think about once in a while, an imagined or conjured up sequence perhaps fulfilling a psychological need, then once that is fulfilled, what happens? Do these women start day-dreaming of something else? And what is it about the rugged men that is so responsible for these dreams? If it's the sweat, then I think Dove should kick up its campaign. How can any woman make out with a man having his smelly armpits shoved in her face? And yet it seems some like it. Some must also like the misconception that a farmer will not be highly intellectual so they just want the no strings attached, the wham bham thank you ma'am. Perhaps under all that bra burning, some women still want to be treated like a toy... in the bedroom, on the kitchen table, next to the cow on the farm, on the hay next to the donkey. But, what do you do when you get an intellectual farmer, one smelling nice, without the donkey and the hay but behaving like a pig sometimes? Is it all about animals? Because intellectual farmers sometimes behave like roosters and peacocks. And if that is true, then what am I, the farmer's bitch? I don't think so!