Together we look at the things she has in two glass fronted cupboards. There are one or two things there which I really love and as she has now decided to sell her house, she wants me to have them. There is the black cat tea pot from the 1920s, with a badly glued crack in its red collar. ‘You broke that when you were a baby,’ she says accusingly. I look at it and wonder whether I do really want it. I haven’t been allowed to touch it since the age of two.