Going to London cinemas in the ‘60s and ‘70s, I always admired the many talents of the usherettes.

I secretly wanted to be one, but never had the upper-body strength and didn’t suit a hat.

Holding a very steady torch was imperative for the usherettes; strong wrists were needed, as was the ability to wave it like King Arthur’s sword.  The proficiency to say “don’t!” was paramount in the usherettes’ armoury.  Don’t spill ice cream; don’t throw Kia-Ora over the balcony and, if you were sitting near the back, don’t touch that, you don’t know where it’s been.

During the B-film or travelogue, the usherettes would be training their neck muscles to support their intermission wares.  Several hundredweight of tubs can play havoc on your spine.

Having multiplication skills were also key; tubs were very expensive.  You’d needed to be an economist to work out what four raspberry ripple tubs would cost – and have a mortgage adviser on hand.

I cried a lot as a kid in the cinema (the Balham Odeon heard more wailing than the walls in Jerusalem) – I blame Dumbo.  It wasn’t helpful having a giant torch shone at me, as if I were escaping from Colditz, with a strict woman on the other end of it saying “don’t cry, it’s not real” – although I felt it harsh my mother had to treat me like every other audience member.