“That was a rough descent. And I’m a helicopter pilot.”
My brother had never ridden in an old London elevator (a “death box”). Our dad used to jump up and down in lifts to scare us when we were children. While this new experience was nerve-wracking for him, I became calm. Hugo was here, and it would all be OK.
He came on something of a junket, asked to attend a dinner with one of the London guilds. This was not his first “work trip” to London. Not to be outdone by his multi-lingual colleagues, he registered “Australian” as a second language with the military. For his chutzpah, was soon assigned to a boondoggle to welcome and translate for a Royal Australian Air Force delegation.
I can never quite believe the delight that my brother takes in building things. While I ranted on about this or that personal problem, he built a couch and dutifully listened. When it didn’t fit the space because of his assembly choices, he was visibly disappointed, but “pulled an Alex” and rebuilt the thing. Our cousin, who fixes problems as soon as she sees them, is an inspiration.
In the time it took me to construct one piddly book tree, he had assembled three enormous bookshelves. “If I were competitive, I would brag,” he remarked. He is famously so, obsessed with introducing new board games into his life so that he has one more way to win. But he knows there’s no contest on furniture building prowess.
He has a penchant for fixing things, too. He would pop up with a screwdriver at bizarre moments “just fixing the bathroom door”, using it for magic like “re-stringing the bird repelling wires.”
Brothers “relish having a useful role in our sisters’ lives,” a friend told me before he arrived. I was worried about over-working him. I hadn’t thought about how feeling useful could be a joy in itself.
Hugo’s History Highlights are where he really comes into his element. After over-delivering on getting the flat put together, we spent a day out in the sunshine touring the City. After widening the eyes of a waitress when he ordered three roti canais at a Malay restaurant (“you know each one comes with two portions?”), we pressed on to find “the oldest statue in London.”
“Actually, there are four statues that compete for this title,” he explains as we walk.
One is outside Sotheby’s, an Egyptian bust from 1320 BC. Hugo dismissed the crown for this statue as it was transported from the UK from elsewhere. Others nitpickingly exclude it because it is a bust, not an entire person. Cleopatra’s needle, of the same time period, is dismissed for similar reasons.
Another contender is the statue of King Alfred the Great. While most of this statue was built in the 18th century, its legs are Roman, almost 2,000 years old. This, too, cannot count as the oldest full statue.
We arrive at St Dunstan-in-the-West, not to be confused with the many other St Dunstans in London, to visit the elderly statue winner. Queen Elizabeth the 1st sits nestled in the church, crafted in 1586. She was transported from Ludgate, literally “Lud’s Gate” after King Lud, who allegedly founded London. Nearby are a few statues of said King, and of the giant and biblical protectors of London, “Gog and Magog.”
Hugo keeps all this in his head, aside from the names of Gog and Magog, which he jokingly called Mog and Zog and fact-checked once at home. He regularly regales us with historical tales, and hosts history talks at his home to explain conflicts past and present.
My brother lives far away, and I don’t see him much. In just two days, he made my flat feel more like a home. Yet his departure left it feeling emptier than before he arrived. I don’t quite long for the days when we did live under the same roof, bickering over who could play which video games. But I do cherish the time we spend together and am grateful for his steadfast, earnest presence in my life. Long may it continue.
Brilliant! And don’t forget Hugo, Auntie Deb needs your router skills in Devizes… 😘
You are both very precious to us and are most certainly 2 in a million children. Very similar yet dissimilar in many ways.