The summer I was 16 – that long, parched, UK heatwave of 1976 – we were living in a house in the middle of town; the one with the stained glass windows, Hammer Horror turrets and monkey puzzle tree in the garden.

It was the house next door to the red-haired woman who made the best chocolate ice-cream and had a ghost called Lily. The house where the old lady opposite used to enjoy seeing our bare feet appearing above the top of the wall when we were turning cartwheels on the lawn. It was the house where I first read Wuthering Heights and listened to Abba’s “Dancing Queen” and painted my toe-nails pearly pink. It was the house where I got the letter saying my father didn’t want to see me any more. It was also the house where I (finally!) got kissed by a boy.