WHEN I was 12,

I wanted to be a painter. Recognising I was serious about this, my mother recalled that her father knew L. S. Lowry — then packed me off to see the famous artist. the figure who opened the door wore a grey three-piece suit. the atmosphere of oil paint mingled with a whiff emanating from so many people in my youth and which you hardly ever smell nowadays, when most people take a daily shower, floss and polish their teeth and dry-clean their clothes. It was a sort of animal smell given off by people who had a bath once a week. he invited me into the back room of the house, fitted out as a studio, and gave me what was, presumably, advice given to thousands of young aspirants. draw, draw, draw, draw. ‘If you find you can’t draw something, leave it. draw something you can. I’ll let you into a secret. You know why I do so many pictures of streets and houses and lamp-posts? It’s because I can’t draw trees. Never could.’ he made me a cup of weak tea. ‘You won’t make much money as a painter,’ he said. ‘I sit here sometimes and I get so annoyed. I see a painting of mine has sold for tens of thousands of pounds and it’s often one I couldn’t give away, or which I’d sold for a fiver.’