Every morning, on my walk to my Tooting secondary school, I’d pass a baker’s.  The smell coming from the shop was so awful it deterred me becoming a baker.  I assume it must have been the yeast?  Probably why I never enjoyed our family holidays on the hop farm.

In the early ‘60s, a shop, which you could have found on the Champs-Elysées,was brought to Balham High Road in the shape of La Patisserie.   The pastries and bread were lovely and you’d almost expect Jean-Paul Sartre to be sitting outside; although, this could have been dangerous should a 155 bus suddenly veer off the road. 

I spent a lot of time in there as my mum was friends with the owners.  Lots of French Fancies, very few Gallic philosophers.

Being a baker is one of those occupations where you have to get up early.  I couldn’t have coped with that as a youngster.  However, these days, in increasing age, I wake up stupidly early.  So early, I’m thinking about getting “Debbie does doughnuts” out of the library and starting my own bakery.

I’d certainly continue with the French theme: I’d call the shop Les beignets, c’est nous; wear a beret; a Thierry Henry shirt and mock people when they try and speak French.