We were at yet another wedding and I had completely lost the plot. I’d left the invitation, card and present at home and couldn’t remember who was getting married this time. The only clue was that the reception was in a big hotel just off Darlington Road in Stockton, so I assumed that it must be a school friend. Someone mentioned the name Graham Matthews, but this meant nothing to me.

The whole day was rather peculiar. Never before had I come across a hotel that kept dinosaur crocodiles in its grounds, and I couldn’t understand why it was my job to look after an African family throughout the whole duration of the celebrations.