Was reading a Ross Rocklyne SF piece (speculative fiction called ‘Ching Witch’ – and FYI speculative fiction was a 70s uppity name for Sci-Fi) inspired by visiting his sons on Haight in San Fran back in the day and experiencing this new 'free love', the early blossoming of Hippydom; I find myself contrasted. I see my father’s generation (who were those suns) riding motorcycles, talking about being at the first Woodstock and Glastonbury, being banged up for possession, loving this free love (I still remember the day, and am increasingly convinced of its unreality when my dad drunkenly told me that a friend of his put up with him, cos dad slept with his wife for him) and I feel more like that old man visiting his son than the son should. Role reversal and all that. I have lived my life in rebellion against my parent’s rebellion, being stolid, staid, solitary, and as sober as I could manage

My brother complained to me once about my telling him off for not working at uni; he said it was unfair on him, because he had the pressure to match me, and he didn’t feel he could. I responded by saying that he didn’t understand the pressure of having to be the good son. Well, he’s just finished uni, got his result (a third, which he says he deserved and I don’t disagree), so he can go and be as bad as he likes; he’s out of the family clutches now, unless he returns prodigal and humbled.

Oh, yes, family information; my black sheep cousin (the blackest of us five cousins) turned up in Manchester, pursuing my slowly fleeing uncle (who left him in Israel when he went off on a business trip fifteen years ago) as he has pursued him through England, Florida, Panama, and now England again. Their relationship is a murder in slow motion. The cousin, who incidentally trained in the Israeli marines (I’m reminded of the Grosse Pointe Blank quote “he has a certain… moral flexibility”), turned up and we were all terror-stricken – my grandma refuses to talk to his dad or him (after the incident when he was a kid when he was given a wodge of cash for his mother back in Israel and it never reached her, nor did she know about it until we rang to check it had been received.) Anyway, one of his international acquaintances got him a job selling stuff in the Trafford Centre, so we were relieved - perhaps, inshallah, god willing, he was going straight?

Nope.

That job disappeared pretty swiftish. So instead, he was employed as a security guard at a local girl’s private school, with food, accommodation, the works.
He got fired again.
Apparently, for sleeping with the six formers.
Oy. Gevalt.

Of course, this is all hearsay through the family, so could be lies. Rafi, if you’re reading this *don’t* come and murder me in my bed, just post a comment. In addition, I’d just like to say I *respect* your life-choice, I envy your clear-cut sociopathy.

The point of all this is, with my family history, I’m happy being prudish, stolid, and only safely strange. There’s altogether too many melanin-rich sheep genes floating about in the pool for my liking. My brother can risk his toes testing the waters and see if he comes up all Dolly.