I remember Instant Sunshine, an occasional group made up of doctors and journalists and such like who sang and played humorous songs on current affairs programmes. The recently departed Miles Kington was one of them.

I remember playing with my train set at our house in Phyllis Avenue. The power supply was from above a shelf in an alcove. I was sitting on the shelf one day, experimenting, and I managed to touch two wires together. I got quite a shock, but fortunately not an actual electric one.

I remember a school show one Christmas that was based on The Emperor's New Clothes in which a rather tubby boy from the next class walked down through the school hall in his vest and underpants. It was probably the year we did Thumbelina.

I remember a work colleague - his mannerisms, his speech, what he looked like - but I can't remember his name or where I worked with him.

I remember my brother getting his fingers shut in a train door at Waterloo - in the days when slam doors were the only type. There were tears.

I remember seeing Nigella Lawson, Tim Burton and Sir Peter Blake in The Wolsley, a restaurant in Piccadilly, though admittedly on different occasions. I wonder if they noticed me...

I remember sherbet.

I remember Norman Smith, who, I have just read on totallyfuzzy, passed away this week aged 85. "Fucking cancer", of course. He was the recording engineer for all the early Beatles recordings, discovered Pink Floyd and, as Hurricane Smith, had hits of his own with Don't Let It Die and Oh Babe, What Would You Say. But I remember Linda (love of my life at the time) Forster telling me she used to babysit for him.