It's been a fun week. Navdeep, my 12-year-old brother-in-law, is on his half term break and staying with us for the duration. He is discovering girls for the first time and determined to learn everything he can about how to woo, sweet talk and eventually kiss them. For some reason (possibly because I talk openly about the subject) he looks upon me as his tutor.
— “Can you kiss Varinder on the mouth please so I can see how you do it?” he asks sweetly.
— “Don't be so disgusting, Navdeep and you, Siamack, can stay where you are!” Snaps Varinder before I can approach her for a French kiss.
— “The poor Kid is only trying to learn what comes naturally at his age,” I protest.
Varinder glares back at both of us before looking the other way in disgust.
So I have made it my mission to open his eyes to the world of girls. The good thing is that he is into older pretty girls – 16 years and older. If we are driving somewhere he will spy a pretty girl, draw my attention to her and ask me to score her out of 10. This has become such a fun sport that we have persuaded Varinder to take part too. At first reluctant, she became so absorbed that rows took place about fair scoring and how women pushing prams, with children and/or husbands could not be included. Only women walking by themselves were fair game and score-able.
Before the women's rights contingent among you send waves of emails, I have made a point – believe me I have – of being balanced with my scoring. I have made sure that he recognizes beauty is only skin deep and people's personalities are what really make them beautiful. That said, we have created the following rule: “N scoring ugly, fat chicks who smoke cigarettes.”
We continued this game on-line by visiting hotornot.com. Hours have been spent pouring over the pictures and I myself have submitted a photo for scoring. It was while we had left Navdeep on his own with the laptop that I noticed he was no longer on the same site. I could make out pictures of big chested wome in provocative poses.
— “What are you doing chimpy?”
— “I don't think this site is suitable for someone your age.”
— “Yes it is,” he replied
A closer look revealed he was visiting the WWF wrestling site. None of the women were bare chested and they all looked very masculine and muscular.
— “Nav, these women look awful.”
— “Why?” He seemed genuinely surprised.
— “Well… look at their muscles and jaw bones.”
— “Their boobs are all fake.”
I explained, using the photos as examples, that real breasts did not look like tightly stretched balloons. It dawned on me that his 12-year-old mind had already been programmed to believe that artificial looking boobs were the norm.
For the rest of his stay he has shown me pictures (none were bare chested) and asked me if they look real or not. Now, nearing the end of his stay, he is averaging an 8 out of 10 accuracy score in real breast identification.
One of the things he is being constantly told off about by his older sister is his farting. He may be only 12, but already he can fart to order at a moment's notice. What is more, the fart can be extremely smelly. So I warned him. I challengd him to dare to fart one more time. And when he did before running out of the room, I resolved to teach him lesson he would not forget.
The next day, I took him completely by surprise. He was totally absorbed with the XBox – tongue sticking out and eyes wide – when I walked over to hem, turned around and farted at him loudly. For an instant he looked stunned. Then I saw his nostrils twitch before he dropped his controller and ran in the adjoining room covering his nose and mouth. He was beginning to look very upset. He started to smell his shirt.
— “My mum washed these just the other day” he squeaked pitifully.
— “Gorgeous I didn't poo on your clothes, I just farted on them. And now you know what it's like.”
I am sad to report that he never 'got' the lesson and he is still farting like he owns our house.
His favourite Xbox game is 'Splinter Cell'. After Varinder goes to bed at around 10pm, Nav and I sit down to play 'til very late. Occasionally, I leave the room to get myself a drink and return to find that he has stopped playing. Reason? Splinter Cell is a scary game for someone his age to play alone. So we play together – huddled up against any surprises – and directing the mission of our agent through the CIA building.
I feel extremely protective towards my brother-in-law. I tuck him into bed and leave a small light on incase he gets up in the middle of the night (he has nightmares about Michael Jackson chasing him). I educate him about the female gender and try to reverse any lasting damage to his sense of good & bad; real & fake by pointing out the differences. In turn he is making me into a more tolerant, centered individual.
This is all good training for becoming a dad some day.