I remember David Miles.

I remember popping into the Catherine Wheel on Kensington Church Road on my first day at the Mail on Sunday to ask the way to the Churchill. They obliged of course (it was quite a bit further along KCR). The Catherine Wheel has long gone and is now a swish Lebanese restaurant.

I remember we always used to see large groups of orthodox Jews on the beach between Elmer and Climping. They would settle themselves apart from everyone else, which on that beach you could quite easily do.

I remember Coco the Clown, who would make his ginger hair rise and fall, and Charlie Cairoli, who wore a bowler hat.

I remember Shirley Collins getting quite upset at Bob Copper’s funeral service when she recalled Bob waiting for a beetle to cross their path while they were out walking. I couldn’t help feeling that that is what anyone would do. But I suppose it isn’t.