Boarding our sleeper train from Bangkok to Laos last night I couldn't help smiling as vivid memories of my dear old brother Ken came flooding back.
Unusually for siblings, we seldom fell out, no matter what the discussion; be it football, music or politics we were pretty much always in tune. Turn the clock back 40 years however, and there's one subject we could never, ever agree on.
Who got to sleep in the top bunk.
Far more exciting to kip on the top, where you were master of your domain, king of the bedroom and - most importantly - 4ft higher than your snotty nosed brother. Being older and bigger, Ken would usually have the honour, only relenting on special occasions like my birthday or if I'd feigned some kind of illness and he didn't want my germs floating up to infect him.
Well, last night it was my turn to pull rank. When I saw the bunks I immediately threw Wend's bag downstairs and climbed the aluminium ladder to bunk nirvana.
Or at least that's what I thought.
The train departs and Wend draws the blackout curtains, snuggling down to a lovely 8 hours of uninterrupted slumber. Not too hot, not too cold, the rhythmic chug of the engine nicely muffled by the thick curtain.
Pure bliss.
I, on the other hand, stare up at a fluorescent strip light 6 inches from my nose that, to quote Morrissey 'never goes out'. Every movement and jolt of the train is accentuated on my lofty perch, the air-conditioning vent for the whole carriage is positioned next to my spleen and the little Scottish bloke sleeping across the aisle keeps farting.
Pure hell.
Which was the perfect preparation for the 3 hours spent fannying about at the border, filling in pointless pieces of paper and waiting in line to hand them - along with lots of U.S. dollars - to unsmiling officials with a penchant for gold teeth and lots of medals.
Not happy. Let's hope Laos is worth the effort.
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