tilting at windmills

Lunch time argument with Doctor Barn in the kitchen at the old chateau.
I had postulated that it is never right to treat what doctors call mental illness with pharmaceutical products.
Ah yes.
That old gag.
I am enough of a scholar of the science of reason to know when I'm losing an argument.
The doc cleaned my clock.
I may have been right but he wiped the floor with me.
He was a bit cheeky while doing it.
Allow me a flashback for a moment.
A few years ago I positively savoured the spectacle of Doctor Barn cleaning the clock of one of the Dad's millionaire friends in this same kitchen while discussing government finance for hospitals.
At the time I'd taken my little brother aside and whispered: "The boy has become the man."
I've got to admit, it's far less entertaining when he pulls the same stunt with me.
Today's memory of getting my own clock cleaned does have a positive side.
At least I didn't try to pull big brother rank.
You know.
Shout him down.
I was tempted.
I was tempted to at least try.
But I chose another way.
I chose to lose the argument rather than shout.
Out of respect for my little brother.
As I write this, gentle travellers of the internet, my handsome preraphaelite features are creased with a rueful grin.
I feel the oddest humility in the face of life.
At the same time I have the unmistakeable sensation that God has brought me to exactly where he wants me to be.