I’ve never worn protective equipment during my work; I’ve never even had a lanyard.  (I’d love to have had a multi-coloured ribbon hanging round my neck with a photograph which, if it was on my passport, I’d be refused entry to any plane, boat and probably train).

At school there were teachers whose subjects determined they should wear some form of protective uniform: the biology master had a white coat (with pockets full of amoebas); the woodwork master had a brown coat (with pockets of examples of wooden toast racks that were never leaving the woodwork room, such was their deformity) and the PE master had a red coat because he was the Devil incarnate; his coat pockets held Pandora’s Box.

My Nan had a polyester housecoat: her coat pockets contained several sprouts she’d cleverly swiped from my plate to avoid any potential Spring and Port Wine situations during Sunday dinners and two former pet mice and a three-year old Fishermen’s Friend.

Barbers had similar coats – much shorter and more purple.  Their pockets contained a million combs; a million pairs of scissors; a million dollops of Brylcreem and something for the weekend – probably a lanyard.