Together, we tested our parents’ boundaries. At about 10, we came of fighting age. He is my little brother, so naturally I found him annoying, but in retrospect I was probably out of order. We slept in bunk beds. One time I must have irritated him, as he ended up kicking the ceiling and putting his foot through the plaster. I also pushed him through a school window. He didn’t hurt himself, thank God: he picked himself up, dusted himself down, checked for cuts and bruises, and pissed himself laughing. Whenever we did something bad, Dad would come home and dish out the discipline. Fortunately, our fighting phase didn’t last too long, as I left home at 16.