My brother makes sloe gin and, at Christmas, he presented us with a bottle, along with home-made jam and preserves.    We’d made an enthusiastic start on it, but for some reason the last few measures lingered in the bottle, until I decided to finish it more as an act of tidying up .  I’d forgotten how delicious it is.

There is a particular grace about home-made, consumable gifts:  in our cluttered lives, they don’t demand permanent accommodation, they aren’t meant to last.  And they offer such a tangible link to the donor.  It pleases me to think of my brother making sloe gin.

It feels like a pleasurable occupation.  I presume, and hope, that he chose to make it, and enjoys doing, it; that he feels a sense of satisfaction and achievement at the outcome.  Because it’s home-made, I know the supplies are limited and so I am touched that he has shared it with us. But most of all, what I love is that, every time I see the present, I am reminded of him, of his family, of my family, of our family.

Self-evidently, I grew up with a brother: my experience of family life was two parents, one sibling.  I didn’t think about this circumstance when young and, as I grew a little older, I would probably have said that we weren’t an especially close family, but that we did well enough.  My parents had arguments sometimes;  my brother and I would bicker, and fight, and go through long periods of not talking at all. Nonetheless, we stuck together. I had no doubt that family was the place you could always turn to in need.

Mark Twain said ‘When I was a boy of 14, my father was so ignorant I could hardly stand to have the old man around.  But when I got to be 21, I was astonished at how much the old man had learned in seven years’. Something similar happened to me with my brother.  As we grew older, I was astonished at what we had in common and, frankly, how much I liked him.  We discovered similar tastes in radio shows and tv programmes, a liking for camping holidays, things I can’t immediately trace back to our childhood.   We seemed to become more companionable as adults than we had been as children.

I know these bonds, these affections, can be constructed.  That’s what we do in a marriage and with close friendships.  But I also remember, vividly, a conversation with my best friend, some 30 years’ ago, about our respective childhoods (she is an only child):  this was the point when I became consciously, overtly aware that having a sibling is not to be taken it for granted.

I am, delightedly, surprised by the joy of it.  The comfort of it.  And the way that the bonds extend: my brother won me over completely by his interest in my children when they were born and it thrilled me to see the relationship develop between them.  And, in turn, he gave me a sister in law and two nephews who are amongst my favourite, dearest people on the planet.

I’ve now washed the empty bottle and put it to one side, wondering how we might return this to my brother, wondering – since we live hundreds of miles apart – when we might see them again. I thought about how much I enjoyed that last glassful, started almost thoughtlessly, regretting that it is finally finished.  Because each time I saw the bottle, each time I drank some, I was reminded of and thought of my brother.  And it’s a comforting thought.  Cheers, Pete.