On Father’s Day my millionaire son walked into my freezing apartment, saw the tinned soup on the table, and asked how I was managing on the eight thousand a month his wife sends me. I told him nobody sends me anything.

Show me the account nobody opens and I’ll show you the problem.

Two colleagues had it printed on a card when I retired. It is in a drawer in this flat. I know exactly which drawer.

Ten years ago my wife Marianne passed away, after a long illness that took most of what we had put aside.

I sold the house we had been in since 1991.

It took four months to sell and I accepted the second offer.

Not because it was good. Because I could not face a third set of strangers walking through her kitchen and saying something about the cupboards.

I paid what was owed. I settled what was left of the medical side, which took until about the November.

And I used most of the remainder on our son.