There was a bloke there every year, called Owain* maybe, who was a bit of a geeky misfit. He liked classical music. We were 9. (Of course, the rest of us weren’t geeky misfits at all, for preferring to spend Christmas eve singing at almost dead pensioners rather than staying at home experimenting with advocaat and hunting for presents). The wards would always be dimly lit, so you needed a torch to read your carol sheet. We never had torches, but Owain always had lots of torches, which he would lend to you. Torches were social currency for Owain.

It’s true; you can ask my brother.

Years later, when Owain went to university, my mum met his mum over the luxury coleslaws in Markses. They spoke about how Owain was getting on. The news wasn’t good. It seems away from the bosom of his family, Owain had adopted something of an “alternative” lifestyle. He’d stopped cleaning his room and – his mum disclosed in hushed, tremulous tones – taken to wearing “odd socks”. If you ask me, the implication was that Owain had lost all reason and morality, and was probably going about doing lots of deviant and depraved acts in those odd socks. He was probably dangerously close to “doing a Huntley”.

Odd socks spell trouble for mums.

*Names have been changed. Posed by models.