Is this hell, or is this reality?

The other day I entered the seventh circle of hell.

The journey down was punctuated by ever more irate swearing, near misses and the occasional screams of the young. The further I descended, the hotter it became. The cacophony of noise was enough to make my ears bleed, the screams reaching pitches only dogs can hear, and a writhing mass of bodies strung all around, from objects of torture.

Why did I ever think my actions were a good idea? All of this could have been so easily avoided.

The most bizarre thoughts flew through my brain as I settled in for the long wait, the wait for the final judgment. “I can’t believe I’m wearing this” “My bag doesn’t match this outfit” of all the banalities to be thinking of. Mind you, I figure that’s exactly what hell is. Too much time to think, too loud, too hot and generally an ever expanding state of nothingness. All the while, on my journey to the seventh circle I was making observations.

More women than men seem to be in hell. Some women seem to be enjoying it. Generally the men look as terrorised as I do.  They serve coffee in hell. Not nice coffee, a bitter, burnt affair. Yes, this is definitely hell. Surrounded by knee high people, all screeching, some in pain, some in glee at the torture they are inflicting on others around them. The colours are bright and garish. Making your eyes water with the intensity of them. If you look hard enough you can see random smears of human offerings. Under foot, you can feel a random mess of dirt and destruction.

Time marches ever forward, as it tends to do.  The noise never eases, the heat increases. My clothes start sticking to my body; only heightening my stress levels. This truly is hell. The acrid coffee burns my mouth, as the smells of hundreds of different people assault my nose.

Then blessedly the clock hits 4. So the feeding time has begun. Another experience confirming I am in hell. Tiny sausage rolls, not enough to fill even a mouse, weird cold pizza. Luke warm juice, from weird smelling cups. Little people, in their dozens, flock to the feeding station. The cries of ..joy…increasing in intensity: volume and pitch. My ears bleed a little bit more.

And then mercifully, oh so mercifully; the master that is Time takes pity on me. 430 arrives, I can gather my two little people and leave the hell that is soft play and a children’s party. Now, where did I put that sock? And why exactly do I have wotsits down my bra?

Family

Who I love.

And who I don’t think I’ve ever told.

This boy is my little brother.

When I was 13 my Mum and Dad brought this little bundle flesh home from hospital and proudly presented my little brother. I was quite enamoured with him. He was seriously cute, especially when his curly hair came in.

He was also seriously annoying. As kids tend to be. He was obsessed with raisins and noddy, didn’t understand that teenagers like to lie in and sleep, and enjoyed leaving a wake of destruction behind him.

Typical two year old stuff really.

Unfortunately, my Mum and Dad broke up. (sad face here) My brother moved away with my Dad. And I grew up.

I became too busy to visit, too busy to call and too busy to text. I saw him a few times a year and always felt awkward in his company.

Then, I grew up some more. I turned around and the little boy was growing into a man. A man with opinions, a sense of humour, thoughts, a life. And I realised I’d missed this happening.

I started making time to go visit when he was over. And whilst still awkward around him, I realise that’s just me being awkward around people in general.

Now, the point?

That little boy is 14. And he is quite simply the most fantastic 14 year old I’ve ever met.

Despite my lack of input in his life, I’ve realised we’re actually incredibly similar. He has a wit like mine, laughs at the same stuff I do. He’s probably a nicer person than me. But he’s ace. Like, proper ace.

It got me to thinking, given our seperation, and lack of conversation over the years, we’ve still grown up to be similar people. He doesn’t have my issues (thank god.) but the nice parts of me I see in him. And that makes me feel good.

Because he’s my brother. Not just a kid my mum had, which I see in my friends relationships with their much younger/older siblings. I love him as much as I love my similar aged siblings. And I want to be there more for him.

I want him to think of me when he needs to sound off about school/friends/dating/embarassing things he really doesn’t want to talk to Mum and Dad about. I want him to think of me when he see’s something funny. I want him to really feel like I’m his sister. And not some kid his mum had.

So I’ve put this on the internet why? Because he’s 14. He lives on the internet. Much like his older sister 😉

Love you kid, sorry about the emo.