Off the Cuff: Playing favourites

The worst accusation that could be levelled against you at school was that of being a teacher's pet. If you happened to be the apple of her eye then you could count on the others to upset your applecart whenever they got the chance.

Most of us have had the experience of being on one side or the other, that is, the favoured one or the one who isn't.

However, at home, each one is convinced that the other is mum's pet or the one dad dotes on. But, if pressed to make a choice, the parents come up with a stock answer: "We love all of you equally."

I've always found this reply most unconvincing. That's because each of us is different and, let's face it, some are easier to get along with than others. Would you seek the company of someone whom you are continually in danger of offending without knowing what the trigger could be? Or would you want to be with one who has a sunnier disposition?

In my family the baton for position of favourite has changed hands many times through the years. Throughout our growing up years, the others were convinced that I was the chosen one.

I must admit that I always knew this to be true but I felt obliged to challenge this assertion whenever it was made with great indignation and hurt by someone who saw themselves in the role of victim.

There was this feeling among the older ones that a lot of what our parents put up with from me would never have been tolerated in anyone else. Now, in retrospect, I can understand their resentment but there were many instances when I got away with something simply because I had not broken the rules.

One golden rule laid down by the head of the house was no playing with stones. And that is just what the older ones did one day. I have no idea why they hit upon this idea of taking turns to lift a huge stone (to my eyes it seemed more like a boulder) and see who could throw it the farthest.

Adrenaline-pumping action

Being among the youngest in that group I was excluded from the game without so much as my say-so. Watching that game in my mind's eye now, I realise the adrenaline-pumping action of lobbing that massive weight must be similar to what a shot put champion experiences.

What made the game even more exciting was the fact that it was two families pitted against each other. And then tragedy struck. One of the non-players (a little boy) decided he'd had enough of watching. He ran onto the field just as the weight was whirling through the air. The next thing we saw was a limp form on the ground, lots of blood and a whole lot of white faces.

The head injury required a few stitches but what the rest of the team got was the medicine they deserved. They were severely punished. Since I hadn't taken part in the game, I escaped with an admonition. The siblings saw this as favouritism at its worst. I viewed it as poetic justice. And, of course, I might have done myself no favours by perhaps crowing a little bit. They have never forgiven me for being the one who got away.

I know that I received fewer punishments than them but that was due to the fact that parents mellow with age. The first-born is usually the one who is the test case on whom everything is tried out. The one born next receives the benefit of the results of their experimentation and so it goes on. So, the more the children, the more likely that the youngest of a brood gets the best deal.