I remember living in a basement flat in Forest Hill. The flat where I burnt paper in the wood-effect wastepaper bin when left on my own. In the corner of the room there was a cage suspended on a stand that housed an ill-tempered, green and yellow budgerigar. Beneath the cage there was a black ceramic cat from which protruded a lampshade with a picture of Venice.

Sometimes my mum would invite neighbours round for coffee.

One time I was left alone with this woman that lived next door. I was swinging my legs between the sofa and the floor. Just before my mum walked back into the room with beverages and bourbon biscuits I had time to ask our guest, "Where's your other face, then?".

"You what?" she said.

"My mum says you've got two." I said.