We meet each Sunday for brunch, sipping our mimosas while we nibble eggs Benedict and crumbly biscuits. I throw my head back and laugh when he tells me his escapades, stories about his last trip to Paris and the debacle with the bellhop. Truly, I’d tell him, I’ll never look at a luggage cart the same way again.
Uncle Nibbly wears velvet suits in the winter and lederhosen in the summer. He’s also got quite an amazing collection of kilts, but he only wears those to weddings and award ceremonies (maybe that’s where you got the idea that he wore them all the time).
His hair is all gray now, but it used to be the deepest black, shiny and thick. I’ve seen the pictures that he displays on his mantle; the ones that show him perched on balconies in Rome or riding elephants in India.
Most of my friends are jealous. They wish that they could ride in his Bentley with the top down, the way we do, hair blowing in the breeze, sunglasses perched atop our noses like we’re starlets or, at the very least, the starlet’s lovers.