How My Brother and I Nearly Killed Each Other (Twice)

Kamikaze tricyclists and fighting on the beach I grew up in the Fifties in Port Tennant, a tight-knit community on the east side of Swansea, in a world of terraced houses and sprawling, imagined battlefields, shared uneasily with my younger brother Peter. Like most brothers born close together, Peter and I did not get on. Not really. We fought, argued, and from my side at least, I was constantly irritated by his habit of trailing after me when I wanted to play with MY friends. We existed in a state of continual low-level warfare, punctuated by sulks and the occasional truce. One of those truces came the Christmas we were both given tricycles. They were magnificent. Bright, shiny machines of pure freedom. For a few glorious days we rode them up and down the pavement outside our house like kings of the road, or at least undisputed monarchs of the kerb, racing each other from lamppost to lamppost, taking corners on two wheels, pretending we were motorcycle daredevils rather than small…