I visited my brother yesterday in Amsterdam. It's always a little tense, because we're not the greatest of friends. I get along with his girlfriend Janet well, but she was working so we were alone. He was busy in the garden, not really paying much attention, and interrupted me to ask how I was spending my time anyway, because I graduated a couple of months ago and wasn't doing anything. I told him I'm taking a year off, and will go to the other end of the world in October, and so I mentioned Kerryn and explained what the JC was. He said: "You know what your problem is? You're all pizza and fairy tales." Meaning that I'm a bit of a lightweight. And it's always been like that. In our family, he always was The Smarter Brother: he could solve Rubik's puzzles in a day, could fix his own computer or TV, knew why Mars was red, why medieval monks wore an extra habit in Summer, he understood every letter of A Brief History Of Time, and, generally, just always knew everything. His IQ is enormous; it's 183 or something. And because of that, he tends to talk down to me a little. And the thing is, because he's so intelligent and everyone's idol a bit, you start to believe these things. He once said: "For people like you, who never realize they're being overbearing all the time, it always comes as a shock when someone tells them that." And that line just went through my head all day. I thought, "It's true. Bullseye. That's me. He's captured me so well. I'm an idiot." One day, Janet told me, "He doesn't really mean it, you know. When he's drunk, he always talks about you and that you are both geniuses." And the truth is, it's not always bad. Sometimes it's cool, and he's friendly, but then he deliberately starts talking about something complex again, testing me how far I can follow him, and sooner or later he discovers I lost him and then the slagging-off begins. And you can never win. You don't duel with Zorro. One time he said: "You only appreciate dead stars: John Lennon, Peter Sellers, Laurence Olivier, Marilyn Monroe. Why?" And I said, "No, wait, hold on, I like Harry Mulisch (a Dutch writer)", and he said: "He's 75, he's almost dead and his creativity died a long time ago." And especially the last couple of years, he hasn't been very easy to get on with. I ring him, and he doesn't return the call, even though he knows that I know he has a number indicator. Or I send him an e-mail, and he doesn't answer it. I don't know if he intentionally doesn't answer it, or if he just forgets about it, so then you back off a little. But I like him a lot, anyway. It's just the way it is.