I never went to a fair while growing up ‘60s and ‘70s.  

If I wanted to see bearded ladies, there were plenty of nonagenarians living in my Balham block of flats whose LadyShaves had clearly run out of battery before rationing was introduced. 

I wouldn’t have trusted myself on any shooting range.  I was more Mother Kelly than Ned. 

Already having 36 glove puppets in my bedroom precluded the need of the addition of a four-foot high teddy.  

I would feel nauseous just looking at various rides, so going on any – even an innocuous-looking giant tea cup – was never going to happen.

If I wanted to look odd in a mirror, I’d simply eat more cake.  

On Clapham Common there was often a fair with its accompanying circus. 

The smell of sawdust brought back memories of what the school caretaker would bring into a class when a school dinner hadn’t agreed with a fellow class member. So, the likelihood of me entering the Big Top was remote.  

I remember being at the top of the Monument  aged 11 and realising I’d never be an acrobat.  

I think local dentists were in league with the fair organisers as I don’t recall candy floss and toffee-apples ever being recommended foodstuffs by the British Dental Association. 

I could never have been a lion-tamer, either;  I’ve watched Mr Benn and it’s not as easy as he made it look!

Send in the clowns.  Actually, please don’t.