Back in the mid-1980s I lived in this fine sandstone building overlooking Queens Park in Glasgow.
I shared a bedsit with my girlfriend at the time.
She later became my wife and then my ex-wife.
My abiding memory is of being accused of stealing someone's giro.
Of course, I hadn't, but the more I protested my innocence, the more guilty I sounded.
It almost got to the point that I even suspected myself.
The giro in question arrived the next day, and the people apologised to me.
What a strange thing to remember.

Last year: