O Brother...

SCENE: My brother and I are on a boat, crossing one of innumerable rivers to reach the south coast. I am contentedly drinking in the peace that is found in Bangladesh only in the middle of very wide rivers. A Friendly, Inquisitive Bangladeshi Chap is engaging my brother in conversation.

FIBC: Hello, friend, your country?

BRUV: England!

FIBC: (looking round at the broad horizons of rural anonymity): Why have you come here?

BRUV: (gestures towards my back) To visit him.

FIBC: He is your father?

BRUV: (manfully suppressing a snigger) no...he's my brother...

This is not the first time my age has been misoverestimated by a decade or more, but it's probably the first time the guessing has placed me in my fifties.

There is nothing that can be done about my cowardly, fugitive hairline. But it does occur to me that it might not be such a bad idea to keep my beard off until my birth certificate grows into it.


Not even thirty, since you ask.