He sometimes catches himself trying to piece together her face, like a half-remembered dream that slips away the moment you reach for it.

If you’ve ever wandered through East London and caught sight of a burst of colour that seems to wink at you, something part comic strip, part album cover, part childhood memory, you might have stumbled across the work of Carl Stimpson.

It’s 1987. My mum, dad, sister Emily, and I are boarding a coach in Newport, Wales, bound for Bargoed.