When I was two, I started a small fire in the kitchen.

I should explain that it was the eighties and everybody smoked. With that in mind, it should be no surprise that there were matchsticks knocking around here and there, all over south London.

Of course, now they have short cords on kettles and child-locks on – everything – so, the world is a lot safer.

However, when I was two, I got hold of my Dad’s matches and stacked them into a small pyramid on the linoleum of our pale blue kitchen. I struck the last match and set it on top of the rest – like a neatly-stacked bonfire by the cooker.

There was, I’m told, a slight whooshing sound (which alerted my parents to the fact that I was up to something), and they came in to the sight of me – kneeling by the embers of this small fire, putting it out with free-running salt.

Now, I’d like to think we can all believe that I was inherently clever, but I did start a fire.

It was shortly after the fire that never was that I decided I wanted to make dessert for my parents. I seem to remember the end result – completely inedible – consisted of cornflakes and dolly mixtures in a bowl, topped off with undiluted orange squash.

However foul that sounds, it was worse.

Still, good times.

Also, Aimée just bought me a packet of Matchmakers. So, matches of all kinds can be pretty wonderful.