He aint heavy...

My brother, who lives in Christchurch, phones me frequently these days. I say these days because for much of his fifty-odd years he rarely rang anyone, let alone made a toll call to me in Auckland. But now he does, and it is a joy to hear from him. He calls me not about the earthquakes or the continuing after-shocks; they do not faze him—and in that regard he is more fortunate than most in Christchurch. No, he rings to discuss the relative merits of our respective rugby league teams, and again he is fortunate; his, The Warriors, are on an upward swing; while mine, The Bulldogs, decidedly are on the downward slope. I should explain that my brother, Peter, is quite a character, and well known around Christchurch particularly in sporting circles through he plays no sport and is content to volunteer for any role that most helps those who do play. He is well liked for that. For that and for various idiosyncrasies such as calling his dog Sarah. The thing about Peter is that from force of circumstance he is the most honest and self-effacing person on this earth. Yet because of that he was for half a century protected by our parents. That protection is no longer there and, as is becoming increasingly obvious with each new day, nor is it needed. My brother is making his own way in the world. He and his dog Sarah. I am immensely proud of who he is and of what he has become.

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