Oppressive Cousin again

I've received a few requests to postOC's pic. I actually considered putting one up and blacking out his face. But then you could only see his bod, which believe me, is not that interesting. So
here's a drawn pic, compliments of MS paint :)

Oppressive Cousin, in London

My charming, darling Oppressive Cousin was always part of our mass collective, multi family, summer vacations in London. He would disembark with all of us from Heathrow airport in our comical entourage consisting of a hissy Grandmother, cackling Aunties, and hyperactive 5 year old cousins running all over the place, while being frantically chased down by me and their nannies, pleading with them to behave.
Such memorable summer vacations have left a deep imprint in my brain, establishing the groundwork of appreciation to the solo trips I take today.The mornings typically began with the usual routine of me being dragged out of bed by Grandmother, to perform the regular pilgramage to Oxford, Bond and Knightsbridge. This distress is later followed by entrapment into a mandatory pretentious lunch with the Aunties, at the venerable Joe's on Sloan -the overpriced eatery with little character to show but plenty of opportunity to "see and be seen" amongst Kuwaiti elite and their wannabes & Co.The later part of the day, I am usually able to squeeze in a trip to the musuem with the young ones or a movie in Leciester square, so long as I respect Oppressive Cousin's conditions of bondage, by honoring the imposed curfew of 10:00 pm. Of course, once I am back in captivitiy at Grandmother's house, chained to the insides of her living room, Oppressive Cousin officially locks the gates and exits the premisis to commence his nocturnal escapades....or shall I say overconfident attempts to gallantly frolic, valorously debauch and sexually exploit the nightlife. I can just picture him with his gang, clad in tasteless but expensive designer wear, reaking of redundant cologne that emits an ever so pungent trail, hopping away from one nightclub to the other, pleading with the muscular bouncers to let them in, and being rejected at every door, untill pathetically resorting to the cheap arab bars on Edgware Road, where *supposedly* he drinks his 'coke'.
Of course when he wakes up the next day in the late afternoon, with a throbbing headache and pools of puffy black circling beneath his eyes, (exposing resonating intoxication and impending crankiness to befall), my Grandmother masks her distress with sarcastic nonchalance: "kil hatha aflam ma3a ishabab?'. With that, he transforms his hideous facial expression into an animated smile, plants a flaccid kiss on Grandmother's forehead, and gingerly responds "ee yuma, saharnaa 3alal talfizyoon ibshiqat il rabi3".
Its funny how we all know (including her) what he's been up to, and that we all pretend that we don't, but what's really amusing are the nights when he does in fact get laid. He gleefully trots into the house no earlier than 2:00 pm, full of sunshine and cheer. He breezes into the shower and pops back into the living room, energized and revved up to fix his own coffee. The rush that envelopes his face commands our awe, and as he cheerfully belts out some tunes, we silently think to ourselves, beginning with me "humph, she must have been some cheap ugly ass hag" then Grandmother "Oh dear, I hope this boy's using protection," and finally the all-knowing-guarder-of-his secrets (and mine), who could write her own book with all the shit she knows, and the scandals she partook (and skillfully covered up), Grandmothers one and only.. Nanny: "tsk tsk! He better not sneak any funky business up in here this weekend. Oh I hope they don't leave to Paris". But even in his "satisfied" days, I still find myself under his oppressive reign, where his immediate reaction to me not being present in the house would be to bombard me with dictatorial questions via cell phone:
"CDiyooh, wainich?"
then
"Ana moo gitlich maatamsheen ib Hyde Park?"
followed by
"ish3indich ib Notting Hill?"
and my absolute favourite
"laish ma gilteely inich 6al3a"

Oh, those glorious summer days. Thank God they're over. Thank God they're history. Thank God I'm 28!