Cousin Richard

Today is my cousin Richard's birthday, so I thought I focus my blog on him to stop me writing about school again (had to go in today, in the snow, to the ONLY school that was open in our town, only to be sent home 3 hours later because it was STILL snowing. My, how the children were moaning!)

Anyway, Richard is a couple of years younger than me, or so he tells people. However, I have more hair and am FAR more attractive, so I dispute his allegations vis a vis me being the more aged. We come from a gang of 16 cousins and as the years have progressed we are the only two who have tolerated each other into adulthood. Well, apart from my brother and another cousin who tolerate each other - they have to, they work together - but they don't count because Richard and I exceed them both in intelligence, humour and all-round general tact and niceness.

Coincidentally, Richard's great-great-great grandfather invented Pimms, too. Weird, eh?

Memories from childhood include turning a Basil Brush soft toy into a Superhero, by attaching him to a long length of string and swinging him wildly from an upstairs window. Also, building a full-size wooden fort from around four hundred redundant fizzy orange crates, an edifice we christened 'Fort Orange'. Lord knows how it didn't fall on our heads and squish us like bugs, but we emerged from many happy hours playing therewithin unscathed.

Also, an attempt to bake potatoes in an old biscuit tin placed in a bonfire. Three hours later, the embers dimming, we opened the tin to find the charred and very solid remains of our potatoes. Luckily, Richard's Mum had a stand-by supply cooking in the Aga inside.

Spreading gravel on a driveway. Richard misjudged a spadeful, and his shovel came up sharply and wacked me in the eye. And it bloomin' well hurt! My one and only black eye.

Uncle John setting off fireworks without a nod or a wink to health and safety at our annual family bonfire get-together.

Millionaire's shortbread. A wild bike ride from my house to his, down some pretty dodgy hills. And somehow, the journey was a lot longer than our childish optimism allowed for.

Being sent by Grandma to 'go and play in the Nursery' whenever we went to visit, where we froze to death, and slid up and down the lino to keep warm.

Spaniels Ben and Monty, and Jeff who ate raw Brussel Sprouts and trumped and fluffed to share the breeze with all.

Sliding toboggan-style down the stairs in sleeping bags. The stairs were narrow. And steep.

Playing at Nannie's in the Womble house. Fruit picking. Heaving great wodges of slimy pond weed from the brook at the end of the lane. Our dad's (God rest them both) chewing the fat over a pack of King Edward cigars.

And much, much more.

So, Cousin Richard, many happy returns of the day. Here's to a good 2010.

And shut yer face!