A POCKET FULL OF HARD BOILED EGGS

We used to call him the 'mad uncle' in the West Wing.

I should be clear that, even though we lived in half a manor house at the time, it wasn’t grand, and it definitely didn’t have ‘wings’. But the Uncle in question was, well, not entirely sane though it may be unkind to label him as ‘mad’.

He wouldn’t smoke a cigarette at Christmas until it had been thrown over the garlands hanging from the ceiling in festive loops. He wore his slippers on the bus. He sung us Goon songs, and he drew funny cartoons.

Uncle was our father’s identical twin brother and they knew how to play tricks. He didn’t have a moustache and our Dad did. When we were little he visited us at bedtime, and we said goodnight and went upstairs. I think you can guess what’s coming. My Dad came up [with moustache] to say goodnight. Then he went out and came back [sans moustache] and pretended to be Uncle.  But even with identical twins there are minute differences that family members know, these little habits and inflections of speech that separate out identical people to their families. I think we were traumatised when we felt we didn’t really know if our Dad was our uncle pretending to be our Dad. Or if our uncle was our Dad pretending to be our uncle. This sort of thing scars kids.

It was never clear if it was Uncle’s idea to collect names on graves, but it provided one of the most interesting and enduring activities of our childhood. ‘Uncle Hunting’ must surely have come from him though; especially as it meant going out after dark in the country side, armed with torches, and involved his sons, nephew and nieces roaming around looking for him.

Even though he could be a challenge in later years my parents valiantly took him on holiday with them; they flew to the Channel Islands, they went to Germany, and they included him on one of their cruises. The point of cruises is they have masses of food, at point of need, all round the clock. Breakfast was a highlight for Uncle, and he had a particular passion for hard boiled eggs; I think the war generation never got over rationing. Uncle would go to the breakfast buffet and after consuming a normal breakfast he would stuff every available pocket with hard boiled eggs ‘for later’.

He was not the most moral of men, but we knew nothing of this when we were young. And though we thought he was funny, as we became older it became clear that often adults in the family found him a bit irritating…

And this is how I remember him: as two people really – a weirdly funny half-mad Uncle – and a man that got a bit lost towards the end of his life, where the close bond that should have tied him to his twin got so strained it broke. A warning for me to take care with relationships that I am not found guilty of harming those I love by taking them for granted or being selfish.

Uncle on left with beard. Dad on right without.