It was one of those days. The wrong washing machine got delivered. So I spent two hours in the launderette. Which meant I was running late on my notes from Tuesday's meeting. I'd planned an evening at the theatre. Before collecting a child from Brixton Astoria where she was moshing to Babyshambles. But I didn't finish writing in time. So I pitched up instead at a Clapham wine bar. For dinner with new people. A long story. Suffice to say, the mocha and chilli martini was strangely fab. Over risotto, we discussed my half-brother. Who I've met once, thirty years ago. I'd long forgotten his existence. Then, this afternoon, I found my father's namesake on a networking site. I checked the profile. And found a strange hybrid. An anorexic with a Boris Karloff forehead. A cautious mouth; no horse-face grin. I showed my eldest. "At least you got the looks," she said. I sent a note. "Is it coincidence, or are we related?" A confirmation came by return. My half-brother is German born and bred. And he's still there. Our shared parent, whom I saw just twice after the age of four, is dead. I imagine we'll exchange one or two perfunctory notes before smalltalk dries. How strange then, that we share the most binding thing of all. DNA:-(