I remember taking Eliot to the park and trying to show him how to use a swing without me pushing him. In the back of my mind I was thinking I wouldn't be around for much longer to teach him how to do such things. He's 24 today.

I remember what a dashed good-looking conductor Nick Dodd made at the helm of the Chelsea Symphony Orchestra. You'll get some idea from the picture of him here, but I think he looked even better from behind, his mane swaying in the breeze from the first violins. I took him to the Tiffin Carol Service once and he pointed out various imperfections so I didn't take him again. Bloody Royal College of Music allumni.

I remember at Frank and Naomi Whately's wedding we sang a hymn by one of the groom's ancestors. Never done that before - or since.

I remember making a tray and a waste paper basket in canework lessons in the top class at primary school.

I remember How, a TV programme with Fred Dinenage and Jack Hargreaves, where they momentarily pretended to be Red Indians as the show opened, but went on to explain how thinks happened or worked. I think one of the other presenters was called Bunty.

I remember Neil Dunkin, one of the news subs I worked with at the Telegraph. We often used to have a pint and/or a chat together. I met him the other day and discovered that he has had a book published, Anfield Of Dreams, about Liverpool, the city, its people, its football club and their fans. And in the back, under the acknowledgements, he has included me!

I remember always wanting to be included in the 'Thanks to' section of someone's CD. Actually I have already had a couple of mentions in Eliot's films.

I remember, every time I have a pint of beer and a bag of peanuts, the scene in The Hitch-Hiker's Guide To The Galaxy where they prepare for oblivion.

I remember on my way home from the Telegraph one night sitting upstairs on a 154 bus going through the Roundshaw estate and the window next to me shattering. Not sure if it was a pellet or a stone but the bus driver took the bus out of service. I pointed out that he was not going to leave the few of us left at the bus stop at that time of night and he conceded and waited for the next bus to come along.

I remember the Marble Factory, an arts project that I used to lend money to in the Walworth Road - or perhaps it was Camberwell.

I remember words attributed to Sir Thomas Beecham on being asked if he had heard of Stockhausen - no, but I've stepped in some.

I remember how fragrant - perhaps a little overpowering - was the smell of my French teacher's after shave.