A CHRISTMAS LETTER TO THE GRANDPARENTS WHO NEVER REALLY KNEW ME.

Dear Nana and Grandad,

39 years ago, yesterday, I remember it was a fine, clear day, when you came down to visit us, bringing down the presents that you selected. You promised something to read and something to play with, something really nice to play with. Here’s what you didn’t know.

The present you bought for me was something that brought my brother joy and anything I had was for show. He grabbed his plastic toy M-16, and wanted to play armies with it, but at nearly eight, I was past all that. And I was never really the type of kid who wanted to play with guns and holsters anyway. And I certainly didn’t watch shows like Combat, which my brother liked.

You see, I would rather that you’d gone into a bookstore in your own way and said to the sales clerk, “My second grandson loves reading. He’s been reading some books by a fellow with an unusual name. Ronald Darling, or something.”

“Do you mean Roald Dahl?”

“He wrote a book about a boy in a Chocolate Factory.”

“Ah, yes, that’s Roald Dahl. Which books by him has he got?”

“The one about the boy in the chocolate factory.”

“Charlie and the Chocolate Factory. Has he got The Twits, or Danny, The Champion Of The World?”

“No.”

“Well, walk this way.”

And then, had my grandfather say, “Edna, Peter doesn’t seem to like playing with toy guns. Maybe we should get him two books, instead of one book and one toy.”

“Okay, Al.”

Some blame can be sheeted towards my mother, who forced me to do things that I hated with my neurotypical brother, rather than things I wanted to do, thus meaning you never saw the real me.

Fast forward 13 months, and my grandfather didn’t remember that it was my birthday!

I gave that toy gun to my brother, because I didn’t want it. He enjoyed playing with it. If only you had known that the rattling of the plastic in the gun was hell on my ears and would cause me to want to block them.

My Christmas wishes have always been simple. Usually, I say, just some clothes and a book. If you were still alive, today, would you be buying me the Rebecca Tope books I love? I don’t know.

You always thought my cousin was better than me, but at least Grandad would have, if Professor Tony Attwood had come out to see you, have said, “Your eldest two grandsons are both good, in different areas. They complement rather than compete against each other.” That was the difference.

I know I can’t go back, as much as I wish I could, but these are things I wish you knew.

Your grandson,

Peter.