Good old Williams & Glyn’s, eh. There used to be one near my Gran’s in Kilburn. I’d run past it every week, clutching my little brown Hovis loaf, and tipping my hat to the commissionaire whose uniform always had shiny brass buttons on it and who always threw me a Sherbet Dip as I went past. Or maybe it was a thrupenny bit.

No, wait a minute, that’s not right. The commissionaire was at Bejam’s where I went to get the Steakhouse Grill for dinner (obviously running home singing “hope it’s chips, it’s chips”) and an Arctic Roll. Or was it a Fray Bentos pie and Battenburg? No that can’t be right. I’m sure he was at Williams & Glyn’s.