At his brother's 60th birthday, Ted Bruning, did something he now regrets...
It was my oldest brother's 60th birthday the other day, and his wife and kids had organised a surprise party for him. He turned up expecting a small celebration lunch with just his immediate family, only to find about 50 of us there; and there were all the usual scenes - hugs, kisses, a very loud rendition of "Happy Birthday To You" - you know the score.
Anyway, at some point we got round to signing a menu for him to keep as a souvenir, and my message was: "You've been my big brother for three-quarters of your life and all of mine, and I love you very much", and I've been cringing with embarrassment ever since.
I wasn't especially trolleyed when I wrote it - I'd had a glass or two of the old bubbly, but I wasn't drunk and I certainly wasn't maudlin drunk. It just seemed such a simple thing to write. I mean, of course I love my brother. I love all my brothers and sisters. Who doesn't? But actually saying so is somehow unforgivable, and ever since the lunch I've been desperately hoping he forgot to take the signed menu home.
At this point someone will say that being reserved about your feelings in this way is a very masculine disability, but I don't think it is. My sisters don't go round saying they love each other any more than my brothers do. And one thing I discovered very early on in my courting career is never to tell a girl that you love her. Girls may say that men ought to show their feelings more readily, but they don't actually mean it. Nothing transforms a young man from a reasonable prospect for a bit of fun into a potential millstone more effectively than the words "I love you".
Nor do I think it's a particularly middle class thing. All right, I endured 10 years of boarding school; but you can't blame the English public school system for every character defect in every one of its products - unless, of course, you're a brilliant lawyer planning an American-style class action on behalf of the public school-educated tongue-tied emotional cripples of the world.
So anyway, I've told my brother that I love him now, and I'll just have to live with it. It means that I'll probably go and visit him even less now than I did before, and when I do next see him I just hope he'll have the good grace not to mention it. But I'd like to publicly reassure my other brothers, and my sisters too, that there's absolutely no danger of my repeating the gaffe and telling them I love them. I do, of course, but I'm not going to make the mistake of telling them - damn! I just have! Oh well - let's hope none of them are listening.
