Because my family were such prodigious smokers, each household contained a wide variety of ashtrays.

My nan had one where, if you pushed the top – like a child’s spinning top, only without the clown painting on the side – the ash would disappear.  When I was young I thought the contents would vanish into a hidden void far beneath Balham High Road.  

One of my dad’s hobbies was stealing ashtrays.  We had one with Bacardi on.  My mother, not wonderfully educated, thought Bacardi was the centre forward for AC Milan.  It was triangular –  like a boomerang; I found out very quickly it wasn’t.

A lot of our flat was sponsored:  our glasses had Esso emblazoned on them – my Ribena often tasted of diesel.   Most of the pens came courtesy of the local Joe Coral and all the scrap paper I was allowed to draw on had the Admiralty (where my mother had worked) logo on.  I became very good at drawing warships.

Our mugs all mysteriously came from various branches of Little Chef.  Quite appropriate as the only thing my mum could cook was an all-day breakfast.  She would do most things for a slice of black pudding.