My parents had five children to worry about, God help them. Imagine keeping a group of teenagers, of whom I was the LEAST likely to misbehave, on the straight and narrow. One sister was routinely sent on dates with a flagon of distilled water having once arrived home at the crack of dawn claiming that her boyfriend’s radiator had boiled dry. Sadly they probably believed her.

Their advice to me on the day I left home – a tiny medieval village in the depths of the countryside for the temptations of a student life in London – was ‘Remember the Raj’. Wise words, I expect, but very little use as a restraint to a girl determined to make up for 18 wasted, well-behaved years.

My own favourite nugget proferred to the boys was that before they did anything to pause for a moment and ask themselves ‘Will this make Ma proud or happy? Or both?’ I don’t think breath was ever wasted more successfully. I could have been whispering in Swahili on the moon and got better results.

However. And that really should have been in extremely large type. Nature abhors a vacuum and into the cavernous empty black hole that has been my supply of things to boast about an almighty lump has landed. This is uncharted territory and I ask you to bear with me this once if I get carried away by the dizzy newness of it all.

I went to the launch yesterday of Useless the Younger’s book. (Note to self: New name required. Suggestions on the usual postcard and put a stamp on it this time!) At the prestigious Photographers’ Gallery in Soho, no less. With drinks.

The book is a collection of photographs, some taken by him, recalling the long lost world that was London about ten years ago, or recently if you are over 50. He did the layout, the retouching, wrote the words and published it. Fabulous reviews, obviously, and not just this one.

‘Where can I get my hands on this ground-breaking publication?’ you enquire, hoping that your loyalty to my blog will pull some strings. Back in line, soldier. I myself, his own mother, had to wrest a copy from the hands of someone who was momentarily distracted. My friend got the display copy. Hot cakes would have blushed in comparison. And it’s thirty quid, hardly loose change but, and admittedly I would say this, worth every penny.

So stop reading this and either Google the Photigaphers’ Gallery and look for Wavey Garms (Yuff speak for party clothes) or try the V Blocc website. Am I proud and happy? What do you think?