In February 1980, my parents moved into a house in Croydon. It turned out to be the first house I ever lived in; I was born around 14 months later. Twenty-five years and 10 months after that, my mother is driving me to the dentist, the sun is shining and she's refuting the current trend of blaming unseasonable weather on global warming, remembering sitting outside eating her breakfast just after moving into the Croydon house, in February 1980.
"It was very strange when we moved in," she says. "The lady who lived there before us couldn't be bothered to move any of her stuff out, so we got the house fully furnished. Very weird. There was a fully stocked airing cupboard, full of sheets and blankets. She left her pyjamas under the pillow!"
"We didn't have to buy anything, everything was there already," she goes on. "But it meant everything in the house was about 40 years old."
Now I know why I always feel like I grew up during the Second World War.