My brother

I am live-blogging from the train on my way back from a refreshing Easter break on the Isle of Wight. It was a super idea of my daughter's to cut loose from the day-to-day grind and catch up with my brother down south. I'm not sure whether she wanted to surprise him with our visit but she revealed on the ferry from Southampton that she hadn't called him but she was sure he wouldn't mind us dropping in as he'd suggested it on a social networking site some months earlier. Anyway when we arrived late Good Friday afternoon it was clear he wasn't expecting us as he answered the door in a threadbare dressing down and comedy slippers. True to his northern roots he was eating a pie as he answered the door and gave off a loud belch as he gave me a welcoming hug. I felt a little anxious and apologised for intruding, at which he roared with laughter and said we were welcome to stay. In fact it felt difficult to leave, or move for that matter, so sticky was his carpet. The place was filthy. My daughter busied herself in the kitchen as my brother and I plonked ourselves down to catch up. He said he'd just watched the Preston Passion that afternoon and had thought of me when he saw the Bus Station, said it brought back memories of me being beaten up by a gang of guys on our way home from a festival. I told him that I'd never been to a festival in my life, then he remembered it was his friend Mick and it wasn't in Preston after all but in Chorley, he fell about laughing at the memory and gave a trump of approval. Something is clearly amiss with my brother but then it always was, even as kids he had a somewhat outlandish way about him. I remember when he used to pull apart and reassemble my toys in a rather bizarre fashion. Thankfully my daughter returned with tea, in mugs stained as dark as treacle, and began talking about our journey down. I took one sip, placed it down and prayed that she had booked a hotel.