The brand new thick red-covered notebook on my mother-in-law’s kitchen table was ideal for my assessment task. I grabbed a black Sharpie pen, then very neatly wrote the title of my work on the cover.

Almost as soon as I popped the lid back on the pen, I experienced shame for claiming the property of my niece F. I sought her out, apologised, and offered to take her shopping to buy her a bigger, better, replacement notebook. We devised a plan that would accommodate the 16 year-old’s Saturday nightclub visit and overnight stay in Brighton.

I needed some shots of France in the 1980s to include in my notebook. Back home I asked TPR (lying on the kitchen table) to find some images for me from his massive photo archive.

His grumpy reply was both irritating and embarrassing. Did he really need to speak so rudely to me? And why do so in front of JM, who was busy cooking supper at our house while HAA ‘s flat in Woodpecker Street was out of action.