Between the ages of four and 14 I shared a bedroom with my brother Cas, who is seven years older than me.
There was an informal border down the middle of the room. On my side, there were torn out pictures from Shoot magazine stuck to the wall, jumbled toys spilling from shelves and West Ham ephemera draped everywhere (he was a QPR fan but just had to put up with it).
His side was completely sparse like the rarely used pied-à-terre of a travelling salesman. He had nothing on the walls and, seemingly, no personal possessions beyond a few items of clothing he would keep crumpled on the floor.
I thought he was a bit of a bully because, sometimes, he would lock me in the airing cupboard. But who could blame him? He was trying to blossom into a fully functioning adult while encumbered by a snot-nosed pipsqueak who was always playing with Star Wars figures on the carpet.
Whenever Cas was diligently working his way towards third base with his latest squeeze, I would charge into the room clutching my plastic Millennium Falcon and making ‘beow beow’ laser noises. On reflection, I would probably have locked me in the airing cupboard too.
Yes, we fought and argued. But he was my big brother and, while I’d never tell him this to his face (not then, not now, not ever) I thought he was amazing.