What could be better than being an uncle? Impossibly exotic bearer of unusual gifts and stories, freewheeling our way in and out of young lives minus parental baggage and devoid of black bags beneath the eyes – unless self-inflicted via unimaginable adventures in the place uncles congregate to lounge, wax their moustaches, sip Martinis and fly light aircrafts.

Childless uncles are a particularly funny breed in that we will never be worn down in the same way as parents. By which I don't just mean exhausted; more that we will never be honed, shaped and crafted into different human beings in the way that parents are by their children. In our relationships we tend towards the selfish. Which is fine, so do kids. But our contrariness means we are always at as much risk of losing our beloved nieces and nephews’ attention as they are of losing ours.

A great uncle I loved dearly was a fan of all things mechanical. I vividly recall the day when midway through an age-inappropriate anecdote about steamships or cuckoo clocks or traction engines, I asserted my teenage right to get up off the sofa and leave the room. I couldn't help noticing his face fall as I left him in the company of my loyal but uncomprehending younger brother.

What he must have thought of me doesn't matter here. I never sensed anything but the same warm and generous acceptance of my brattishness whenever he came to other family parties in the years that followed. Later, I began to fear that after this innocuous-seeming incident he began to examine his own life in more detail and thereafter suspected himself of having become the archetypal boring relation – the unspoken fear of all in our position. More likely, he knew that over time my interests would expand to encompass all life has to offer – whether mechanical or not – and there’d come a point when I’d give anything to hear one of his anecdotes. And guess what? He’d be right!

Another uncle, closer to my age, was a popstar in the ‘80s and gloried in the hard work and rewards that came with that profession. His home was usually LA but when he was in England, we were guaranteed a visit. The thrill of stealing cigarettes from the packs he’d carelessly leave at my parents’ house is one hard to match to this day. That he noticed us at all was beyond our wildest dreams. We didn’t just hang onto his every word, as kids we breathed in his magical scent – of leather, tobacco and expensive aftershave. Every promise of the unknown world lingered long after his BMW had departed our suburban stasis.

When I decided to pursue my own creative ambitions as a writer, I looked to my uncle for encouragement, and when his busy lifestyle meant he couldn’t offer that immediately, I briefly saw him as a rival. Which seems bizarre in retrospect, given there isn’t a lot of overlap between synth playing and hacking away on the page! Eventually, I did the obvious thing, and turned to my father – a writer himself – for support and inspiration. But where was my uncle when I needed him?

Now older and wiser, I realise he was simply being an uncle: aloof, distracted, infused with otherness, but ultimately just a man, just an uncle – yet always there for me when I truly needed him. I plan to fill the same need for my nephews and nieces, only without the cigarettes…