William

I have a younger brother called William. He and I have never been close - I was quite a shit to him throughout childhood. He was more obviously badly affected by our parents divorce, refusing to go with my father on visitation weekends. We're not similar people - I want social contact and I don't think he does.

We both left university (I had my 2:2 from Exeter in History and Politics, he had a 2:1 in English from Bristol) with no clear idea of what career to follow.

I went on to throw five years down the crapper imagining that I could run a spool of thread into a pair of pants as a professional gambler. Maybe somewhere out there in the infinity of space one of my doppelgangers managed it. It wasn't me. I'm still in debt, I have nothing to fall back on if I get sacked tomorrow and I have missed the property boat, unless I follow the mugs into Croatian villas or buy-to-let flats in Somalia.

Now I don't want to sound like an Anthony Robbins tape here but since I made a few separate changes to my life they have had a wonderful aggregate effect. Hardly a massive insight but something which eluded my sicko's brain. Wake the town and tell the people.

My brother wants to be a poet. He lives in Loughton in Essex, in my dying grandmother's tiny 2 up 2 down terraced house. He never goes out as far as we know but just reads and listens to music. Maybe the ravens feed him.

I respect the artistic ambition which differentiates his dream from mine. Cynically I doubt he can find inspiration in those surroundings. Passing nearby this morning at 9 am after work I dropped in. I woke him up which of course was a terrible start. He looked terrible - pale, fat, unsmiling. He reminds me of how I was at my nadir. I made small talk with him then gave up and asked about his life. I decorated my enquiries with disclaimers ("not trying to interfere", "feel concerned, that's all") which were self-evidently untrue and all I can have done is alienated him even more.