I held in my hands an exact replica of my college common room, complete with imaginary kitchen. It was finely crafted from bits of cardboard and blue-tac, and was set in a box which once contained a ‘Paint Your Own Lamp’ kit; the dreams of old. My friend Claire had made this for me years ago and I was fighting for its right to survival.

‘But I can’t throw it out… look at the imaginary microwave!’

I was moving out my Dad’s house into a flat above a lingerie shop. Sexy, flat-based times were to be had, and I simply had no room in my new place for all the crap from my old place, not with all the lingerie I was planning on stealing.