I include myself in that. Last year, I was working in the garden on a very hot day. We had a holiday coming up, and I was conscious of my corpse-like pallor, so I thought, “why not, in the privacy of my own property, take my T-shirt off?” So I did. The problem was, when you live in London terraces, there’s no such thing as privacy. About six minutes into my bare-chested digging, my neighbour popped up over the fence and quipped, “You look like you’re in a chain gang.”
