I remember seeing a copy of a Jackson C Frank album in Staines in QVC (a great discount CD chain which got bought up by someone like Woolworth's but then closed down) in the bargain bin and not buying it. It wasn't there when I went back and I have regretted it ever since.

I remember singing Died for Love at a festival singaround and the organiser saying how clever I was for being able to sing in a minor key. Who me?

I remember reading a Michael Ayrton novel about an artist called Capisco. It was naturally based on the life, work and celebrity status of Picasso, and, when I found out that on the day I read of Capisco's death in the closing pages of the book Picasso himself had died, I was more than a little disturbed. Did I have paranormal powers? Could I do it again?

I remember the little alcoves on the old Hungerford Bridge which were presumably meant to be used as viewing platforms but where we would always stop, hug and kiss.

I remember the house swimming gala where I was in the backstroke heat but then they put me in the relay. I could only swim on my back so didn't want to do it but they insisted I go ahead. By the time I had finished, the other teams were about a length ahead.

I remember watching (out of the corner of my eye) a man on the train. He was quite stubbly and dishevelled and wore a bus company-type blazer, which I realised later was probably bought from a charity shop, because the pocket with the logo on it was torn at the seam. What was particularly fascinating was that while he was reading his free paper, every now and again he would pinch and tear a word out, or write in the margins with a red ball-point pen or tear out whole sections by hand and put them carefully into one of the two carrier bags he had next to him.