Ruth Walker: ‘They ARE FIGHTING, physically TEARING LUMPS OUT OF EACH OTHER’

With Twin Brother and me, it was who got the most fake cola in their Sodastream bottle. Or who got to watch what they wanted on the ancient wooden box TV. He would keep his finger on BBC1, I would keep my finger on ITV, and the telly would switch to BBC2 out of sheer exasperation. We'd end up sitting there, noses pressed up against some rubbish documentary on the Second World War, lest the other one win the battle of the channels.

(Yes, kids, this was in the olden days, before even Channel 4. Keep up.)

So I am acutely aware of a teenager's heightened sense of injustice. I know what it feels like (usually a nasty Chinese burn on the upper arm). Which is why, when we decide to move things around at Walker Towers, I have all bases covered.

The Teenager has a tiny room. She can't move in it for stuff. It is a hovel. I suggest she spread her wings; move downstairs to the dining room.

The boys share a room. The Mild One has been less than mild when voicing his unhappiness at this particular arrangement. So, in a bedroom revolution, The Wild One can have the small room, The Mild One gets to keep the big room, The Teenager gets space to spread her mess and everyone's happy, no?

No.

To begin with, it's all going swimmingly. The Mild One is an enthusiastic, energetic helper, taking apart beds, brewing reviving pots of tea. The Teenager is surprisingly industrious when it comes to throwing out unnecessary junk – though the frequent stops to muse over cards (“Oh, who was this from?”), books (“Oh, I loved this book”), nearly brings us to blows.

The Wild One – who is too small to lift anything, utterly devoid of sentimentality and puts far too much milk in my tea – goes out to play.

Five hours later, job almost done, The Mild One is setting up his brother's bed in the new (small) room. He is very quiet. Then: “I want this room.”

OK, I hesitate ... well, I don't suppose The Wild One will mind.

Except he does. He comes home and flies into a rage. He wants the small room because he's small. The Mild One wants it because it has a carpet. They are fighting. Physically tearing lumps out of each other. They are crying.

I consider pouring myself a drink. Then consider just going out somewhere, anywhere.

Instead, I go upstairs, pull them apart and try the oldest trick in the book. Whoever takes the big room gets £50to redecorate, buy a rug or a new Xbox game.

Silence. Then a smile. “I'll do it,” says The Mild One.

“No, I'll do it,” says The Wild One.

“I should get first choice, I'm older,” says the Mild One.

“But Mum offered me this room first,” says The Wild One.

“You shouldn't get £50 when you've done nothing to help.”

They start fighting again. I go downstairs and pour that drink after all.