I stare at the trunk.

It’s one of those huge old-fashioned ones; the type you see being lugged about by a porter in the scene of a film where our hero is setting off somewhere exotic. I can imagine that it once crossed the sea in the roaring ‘20s on an ocean-going liner from New York to Southampton.

In reality however I know this isn’t true. It’s my dad’s old trunk from university and so the most exciting trip it’s ever done is from St Pancras to Nottingham in the not-so-roaring ‘70s. His name and former address are written on the lid, presumably in case it was ever lost in transit and the person who came across decided they didn’t want to become the new permanent owner of a collection of paisley y-fronts, some kipper ties and a couple of Pink Floyd albums.

The trunk has now passed to me and my younger brother, I’m around eight years old at this point which means he’s five. We usually use the trunk to store our dressing up clothes in.

But not today.

Today, because I am dressed as a magician, I have put my little brother in the trunk and for the first time ever closed the two large locks on its lid. I then tapped the trunk with my magic wand, the idea being that when I reopen it he will have disappeared.

Whether or not he has done, I don’t know, as now can’t open the locks. If I were to guess I’d say he is still inside as I can hear knocking and what sounds like crying. I reluctantly decide that this is more than my nascent magical powers can handle.

As the muffled cries seem to be getting more urgent, I trudge downstairs and tell my parents I’ve done a magic trick and it’s gone wrong. They ask what the trick was and where my brother is and I’m able to answer both of these questions in one go.

Madness then ensues. My dad rushes upstairs and quickly realises that he can’t open the locks either and given that the keys have not been seen in some years drastic action is needed. He then dashes back downstairs and out to the shed, returning with the largest hammer he can find.

While this goes on my mum tries to placate my increasingly upset brother through the trunk lid as his hysteria increases and presumably his supply of oxygen diminishes. My dad puts the hammer to good use and in short order smashes both the locks off.

My brother is retrieved and has an emotional hug with my mum involving plenty of tears from both while my dad explains to me in language that can only be described as colourful why locking small people in even smaller spaces is a really bad idea. Suitably chastened, I vow never to do anything similar again.

Although I failed to make my brother disappear, I did succeed with the trunk. It was last seen sitting out with the bins waiting to be collected, a sad end to an artefact with such a long and glorious family history.