I’m showing our extension to my little brother, Chris, and his sexy girlfriend, Ali. She says: “Chris, why can’t we have this?”

He says: “It’s what happens when you approach 40: you lose your looks, you gain a conservatory.” Recently my brother has got so cocky. He’s grown a goatee beard. He’s developed a slight Jamaican accent.

I say: “Chris, are we playing tennis today?”

He shrugs. “If you want.”

“We’ll play one set. If I win, give me your Lemon Jelly EPs.”

“When I win, give me Dad’s honeymoon suit.”

“It was handmade in 1959! It’s more valuable than a CD!”

“Chill out, bruv. Ask for something else.”

Bastard. He’s claiming I’m getting rattled. I’m going to bring him down like a stag in the forest.

“Chris, if I win, you’ll have to strip, then I’ll chase you round the court, shouting, “I’m the daddy!”

“When I win, I’ll slap you so hard on the arse, I’ll leave a map of the world.”

I bet he’d take a run-up.

“It’s a deal,” I say. “I trust you’ve been practising.”

Dressed in hat, jeans and brogues, I lead him to the public court. Before I know it, he’s won the first three games. He smirks. He's thinking: you’re Gary Neville; I’m Micah Richards. I’m the future. I’m thinking: you’re Sean Wright-Phillips; I’m David Beckham. I may be past it, but I can deliver a tedious, relentless accuracy. Besides, I’m controlling the media. Ali turns up, as he’s serving. I study the sky.

“Do you hear that? Nightingale,” I say, as the ball slams past.

“Am I supposed to take that again?”

“No, no, no.”

He double-faults. Then he slows his serve, and I hit a looping return to his backhand. It’s the tennis equivalent of the donkey drop. He scuffs it. My return clips the net and plops over.

“Ain’t you gonna say sorry?” he says.

“Absolutely! Let’s take it again.”

He sees I’ve started winning. I’m also cantering off with the moral high ground. He loses the game, then begins playing with a grim fury that inhibits his natural flair. I pick up the pace and snatch three games. Then I stop and deliver an impromptu lecture about Georgian architecture. That really winds him up. I win the set with an underarm serve.

I say: “Strip, bitch, and start running.” (I know that’s sexist, but it wouldn’t have had the same effect if I’d said: “Remove your clothes, you flibbertigibbet. I shall pursue you!”) He smirks. We’re friends again. Then suddenly he kicks off his shorts and runs. I chase. But then I notice some teenage boys looming like wasps near ice cream. They’re watching a half-naked youth being pursued by a sweating man who’s bellowing, “I’m the daddy!” And it occurs to me . . . I have won, but I’m not confident I’m behaving like a winner.

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