There’s a photograph of us all on my mum’s mantelpiece. A colour picture of faded browns, oranges and beige. It’s my sister’s wedding, 1976, the year of the big heatwave and a minister for drought. She was married on a Saturday and turned 21 on the following Wednesday.

The whole family is standing there in the most awful fashions. Me in sandals, grey trousers, a corduroy jacket and a cream shirt straining at the buttons. My mum’s smiling, although a few minutes earlier she stood sour-faced at the steps to the registry office saying ‘he’s not going to come!’ But the bridegroom did come. I think this made her even more sour.

My dad’s brother, Derrick, was there all the way from New Zealand, Pukha Sahib with his regimental badge on his blazer. It was the first time they had seen each other since India in the 1950s. My dad looks younger, brown suede shoes and big bushy eyebrows whirling out of control. Uncle Derrick’s wife, May, had wanted to cut his eyebrows, but my sister said ‘No! It’s my wedding day! Leave my dad alone!’

We had the reception in the village hall near where my mum had grown up. It hadn’t changed at all, my mum said. There was a disco with a DJ who spent most of the evening chatting up the birds. My mum did all the catering – sandwiches with cheese and piccalilli or processed ham and mustard, chicken drumsticks and vol au vents piled high with prawns in pink sauce. All my aunts and uncles – on my mum’s side – got pissed and danced a lot. There were no fights.

It was noisy. It was busy. I was happy. I remember being happy, which is strange because I always tell people I had a miserable childhood.