I was 16 when my youngest brother, James, was born. With an age difference like that, we've never had a lot in common.
He has always had formidable amounts of energy. As a toddler that
energy expressed itself in towering rages, which would invariably see
him consigned to another room until he calmed down. The bedroom
had to be swiftly abandoned as a place of punishment. Consigned
there at age two, for the purpose of reflecting on his evil ways, he
promptly climbed out the window, and hightailed it, nappy trailing,
volcanic temper still erupting. The bathroom became the next
point of custody (because he couldn't reach the window). If this
punishment was ever inflicted on the rest of us, we would be instantly
reduced to tears, and promise to behave. James, on the other
hand, would kick the door and roar defiance. Didn't have much
vocabulary, but achieved a lot with tone.
Sport was James' salvation. (Probably saved Mum's sanity,
too.) Throw James a ball and he was in heaven. Cricket,
rugby, squash, tennis - he was a child prodigy at them all.
Then he discovered his true vocation - but I'm getting ahead of myself.
Tonight, James is going to take me to a pub to hear a band we both like, called The Necks.
It's weird going on a date with your brother. In his local
community, James is a bit of a legend. He's got that brooding,
Byronic stuff going on. His vocation turned out to be music, and
he's always played in dark, edgy bands who sing songs to open a vein
by.
James has always sneered at happiness, as an affectation of the middle
classes. Likewise unsuccessful bands are to be deeply admired for
their commitment to the struggle, while successful bands are shallow,
and only in it for the money.
The Necks are sufficiently cultish to not offend James' artistic
sensibilities, and I find their music really interesting.
Long, sinewy, jazz-like melodies - a single song can run for 50
minutes. As a consequence, James points out he is making a
considerable sacrifice by squiring me along to tonight's gig.
Evidently, Necks fans are reverential in the presence of greatness, and
although it's a pub gig, we are not allowed to talk while they're
playing. And there's no smoking, which will be stressful for poor
James when there is only one song in the first half, and one in the
second.
Copious amounts of red wine will hopefully keep him sufficiently relaxed to stop him bolting for the door.
I want to keep him happy, because this is not a neighborhood I would
ever venture into on my own. It's so cool, so young, urban, hip,
that I'm likely to be picked up by the style police, and forcibly
ejected.
James will know everyone at the pub, but I'm hoping if I wear lots of
black, and don't talk too much, I might pass undetected. If
anyone twigs I'm a middle-aged, middle-class working mother, I'm sunk.
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Change of Life 
