I remember, when I used to want a day off from school, I would twist the corner of my handkerchief into a point and stick it up my nose, tickling myself into a bout of sneezing. I would then tell my Mum that I felt really awful. Worked every time.

I remember using handkerchiefs instead of tissues.

I remember a song probably from the Sixties that I had/have on an old reel-to-reel tape that went "Said she'd be there/At Trafalgar Square". Despite extensive investigation, I have no idea who it was by or what it was called.

I remember Dave Kelly playing at the Ram Folk Club - or it might have been Sutton Folk Club - shortly after his sister Jo Ann had died. He began to play one of her songs in her memory, but only got about half way through the first verse and burst into tears, saying "It's too soon, too soon". So he started playing something else.

I remember when you only had one dustbin.

I remember a book we had at primary school about a log floating down through the Great Lakes. And another about a penny. And another about Pestalozzi children.

I remember, when I was a highly regarded bank manager (not), lending Alan Kewn £100 to pay his phone bill so he could get his PR company off the ground. I liked the look of him - he had long hair and a Liverpool accent. What better credentials would someone wanting to get on in the pop business need? I am sure the statute of limitations covers this as regards breaking confidence, and anyway it was in another lifetime. And, thank God, I don't work for the bank any more. But he still has his PR business which appears to be thriving. And he came to my leaving do so I expect he remembers me.

I remember my headmaster telling us to look up a word we didn't know and during the next week we would be guaranteed to come across the word again. The other day I was surprised to have to explain to a fellow sub that pawnbrokers used to be referred to as "uncle". Within a week I had heard the expression used twice - in Upstairs/Downstairs and The Pawnbroker, both repeated on TV.

I remember learning how to make french toast by watching Kramer vs. Kramer.

I remember Uncle Tom, a distant relation, whom we used to visit in Friern Barnet, north London, every year or so, and who had a fantastic record collection, mainly 78s, including such wonders as Axeman Spare that Tree, Mad Dogs and Englishmen and songs by Tom Lehrer. They were quite obscure at the time, but now I've probably got most of the stuff I used to listen to there on CD or downloaded from the Internet.

I remember Mike Wilson, of the Wilson Family, a family of fantastic unaccompanied singers from Teesside, beginning to sing Ewan McColl's Joy of Living at a singaround at Bracknell Folk Festival. Someone who I guess had been recently bereaved burst into tears, leapt up and ran out. At least I hope that's why they ran out. Mike carried on. It's a very moving song.

I remember a front page splash I did on the Staines News about a student who died after crashing his car into the school gates while under the influence of alcohol. The next week there was a letter accusing us of being insensitive to the family's grief etc. I felt bad. The following week there was a letter suggesting the first respondent should spend some time in a casualty ward seeing the consequences of drink-driving. I felt better.

I remember the school song - Non nobis domine. I have only just discovered that it was written by Rudyard Kipling (or to be more specific it was Roger Quilter's setting of a text by Kipling).

I remember knocking at someone's door, presumably in my role as encyclopaedia salesman, and a little girl saying "Mummy, there's a man at the door." Man? Was I that old? Suddenly a gloom descended that I have been under ever since. Until, that is, the other day when I picked up a blanket a young mum had dropped from her pushchair. A little girl nearby said: "Daddy, that boy helped Mummy." Life is sweet.

I remember fare stages at some bus stops.

I remember often seeing Lol Coxhill with his saxophone busking at the South Bank end of Hungerford Bridge.

I remember recognising Ian McKellen sitting upstairs on the front seat of my bus towards Waterloo busily studying a play. Long before he was knighted. Long before he'd come out. Long before he was Gandalf. Probably before Peter Jackson was born.