What would motivate someone to write a memoir? Isn’t that like selling the family silver—cashing in on cherished memories? I suppose it is, (and we kids sold ours as soon as we got our hands on it). Who has the time to polish a teapot destined for one outing a year?

Writing road shows excite participants with the good news that everyone possesses an inner narrative, something a bit more interesting than I got born, went to school, got married, had kids, divorced, worked, went grey, died. Some let their time capsule escape dressed up as a work of fiction. Others find poetry in their reminiscence. Or, they just go splat on the plate, with no garnish or gravy. At least I have added some salt and pepper to my story, leaving my father to add the chilli sauce.

Memoirs are a form of verbal voyeurism. They invite you to judge in the game of ‘Has Britain Got Writers?’ If you enter this competition, be prepared for public criticism. I have no fear of others pillorying me, one of the many strengths I acquired at boarding school. You can dislike me as much as you like, say I have missed the point, but it will not alter my recollections. In this genre, the pages show lives lived, battles lost, and pride stretched too far.

Inevitably, others get caught up in true stories. My siblings are part of my story. I can’t pretend I don’t have any, just like they can’t get rid of me. They are supportive, if not a little frustrated, by my self-indulgence. There are writers out there who have made a determined effort to never get invited to family functions ever again. I am not one of them.