I despaired at my parents who proudly showed off their latest acquisition. This was a set of four wrecked ‘classic’ cars that they considered to be valuable vintage vehicles. There was a badly bashed grey Golf GTi, a Ford Cortina, a black Vauxhall, and another make that I did not recognise.

My father saw this as an investment. My own view was that this was yet more junk that I and my poor sisters would be obliged to sort out in a state of grief following my parents’ deaths.

Rather than more unnecessary spending on other people’s cast-offs, I argued that their time would be better spent caring for the belongings that actually meant something to us, such as the handkerchief embroidered by nuns that I found under the sofa. This featured our saints’ names, and would look lovely framed.