Throat dry and skin damp, surrounded by limp cardboard boxes of forgotten lives, lost mementoes of forgotten events. Faded photographs of strangers inhabit drawers lined with brown, brittle newspaper, often more interesting than the documents they hide. I pause and watch dust mites dance in the shafts of hot summer sunlight lancing through the gloom of the basement room. The only sound my breathing and the comforting cheep, cheep, cheep of house sparrows outside the window. And then wedged at the back of a drawer, a photograph, colours faded liked a water colour painting, edges dog eared. Two schoolboys smile happily into the camera, walking on snow covered city pavements in school caps, long navy blue raincoats, scarves and gloves, and short trousers with long grey socks. I remember the air, sharp and cold, bright sunshine glistening on the frosted edges of the red telephone box behind us. One corner of each of its small window panes obscured by a crescent of snow, like a chintzy Christmas card. Strange how memory works. I can see the frosted panes, feel the cold air in my nostrils, hear the scrunch of shoes compacting the new snow, but I can’t picture the person behind the camera.

But, oh my god, I remember that boy. Once upon a time that boy was me.