Well, was I 14 , 13, somewhere around there? No matter, I got to see my mother every other weekend and that was the only bright point of my childhood. She was married to a new guy, a drinker, as asshole you had to be careful around. Our weekends were pretty similar, always some activities involved, as if we need to be stimulated. Museums and the Commonwealth Centre and such. And as worthy as that sounds, I’m pretty sure my sisters and I would have been just as happy, even more so, I imagine, just lounging on a sofa close to our mum, being the family we weren’t.

I remember one Sunday we went for a trip along the Thames and there were a host of artists along the embankment trying to sell mediocre paintings and macrame and such.

I saw one man selling candles, very artisanal, and a woman wanted one that looked very textural, sort of pockmarked all over. The seller agreed and pulled a bog standard candle out of a box and proceeded to hammer at it with a short plank with a square, galvanised nail struck through one end.

The nail made the required pockmarks and it turned out fine, but it was to my mind watching a magician from behind, seeing the workings and the workings were very cheap. But I remember savouring the apparent disappointment of the buyer who thought they were purchasing a work of art and instead got a candle hammered with a short stick and a nail.