If I think about it too hard, I might need therapy.

On Sunday my brother Sunshine arrived in town and I went out to the airport to pick him up.

'Are you limping?' Came out of my mouth before any type of greeting.

'Yeah,' he smiled as he allowed his limp to morph into a full blown hobble, 'came off my bike this morning.'

'How come?'

'Going down hill, greasy road, wheels came out from under me round a corner.'

'How fast were you going?'

'About thirty-five ks.'

'Why were you going so fast?'

'Didn't want to hold the car up behind me.'

'You're a mental.'

Ohh it was ugly, no skin on one ankle and I wanted to vomit when he showed me the damage to his thigh. Think an area the size of your palm and then think road and hitting it at thirty-five ks.

I must say my sympathy for him dwindled when he tried to gross me out with his bloodied gauze dressing, though.

Bit like the time he chased me through my bedroom with the freshly shot dead rabbit.

And the time he tormented me with duck intestines.

And the time he fractured my wrist.

And the time he was dubbing me on his bike, just after I had got home from getting my plaster off my wrist(see above), I told him not to go round the holly bush, he went round the holly bush, I put my foot into the spokes of his wheel to avoid getting scratched and ended up on crutches due to having a crushed foot.

And the time he tried to sell me. (Thank god there was no such thing as EBay when we were growing up).

I think I should stop now, otherwise I could see this turning into a very long post.