The side-effects of extensive experimentation with recreational drugs in my youth became a serious problem in middle age. My super-sensitive hearing amplified any ambient noise in the environment. During the day the bursts of sound were mildly irritating. However, at night it was far more serious. I knew that I’d never enjoy eight hours of uninterrupted sleep again. At a recent conference I experienced a further form of the affliction. The volume of the piped background music played during presentations was greater than that of the speaker’s voice. There was no point in complaining. This was my own stupid fault, after all.

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My sister S and a bunch of teenage friends held a sleep-over in the shed. I was an unwelcome visitor when sent down to the bottom of the garden to check up on them. Meanwhile my sister J showed only mild interest when I related my excitement at spotting Kevin Whately at Kings Cross station. Instead she launched into a speech listing all the reasons why she deserved to travel first class.