It happened by the green outside our house. I was returning from the shops with my mum and we passed a large, black car parked a little way up Dacre Gardens. The rear window was open, cigar smoke drifting out into the autumn air, curling around my mother’s headscarf as she passed the vehicle. She made a double take at the passenger, somebody vaguely familiar to her.
He looked at her directly, before opening the car door and alighting.
“Good afternoon, madam,” he said. She stared back, slightly coyly, before returning the greeting. The man’s eyes then moved to me. Slowly, he extended his hand and took mine, shaking it very gently.
“and good afternoon to you, too, young man,” he said, in his rich, impeccably crisp, well tailored voice, as his chauffeur, our neighbour, returned.
“Ready, Mr Moore?” said his driver.
Roger Moore unbuttoned his jacket and slid back into the back seat, giving my grinning mum and me a wave.
Of course, I can’t remember any of this. I was only three years old.