Until my auntie Vera took me on a trolley bus from Wimbledon to Belmont (which seemed so far away from Balham, I could have been on Neptune), my second favourite mode of transport was bannisters.  (My first was the train, as I enjoyed climbing into the rope luggage rack.  I think I had been a monkey in a previous life).

In my Balham flats the cleaning ladies had done such a fine job with their tins of Pledge on the bannisters that, going down them, was like the bobsleigh at the winter Olympics.

Perhaps it’s a boy thing, but going down the flight of stairs from my fourth-floor flat, I’d slide down the set of bannisters rather than testing my multiplication skills by taking eight or nine steps at a time or take the lift.  

Oddly, I never did this on the stairs at Balham Tube station.  I think the metal studs fixed regularly on my potential downward “course” were off-putting.  “Vasectomy” was one of the first Latin words I learned.

A consequence of this constant sliding meant one side of my trousers became quite worn.  When questioned by my mother about this one-sided wear and tear, I said that one of my thighs was larger than the other and therefore rubbed.  Explaining why I’d drawn Olympic rings on her best tea tray was less convincing.  You win some, you luge some 😊