One of the themes I touch on in the book is the way memories have a kind of reliability of their own, even when they might be at odds with the facts. I can give you a recent example. There’s a bit in the book where I talk about my Auntie Hilda. She grew up the same way as my mum, but had a very different life. She was extremely beautiful and at one point married a self-made man—a builder who became a contractor. In the 1960s, they came to visit us in his white Rolls-Royce. I remember this so vividly. And that in itself is kind of alarming, because that symbol—that detail, the white Rolls-Royce—is such a cinematic trope. There are so many films from that period with a character who's made good and returns to the crummy little terrace house in a white Rolls-Royce. I would have sworn under oath it was white. But my other aunt, who read the book shortly after it came out in England, recently sent me a photo of a yellow Rolls-Royce. It turns out he’d bought it from the British comedian Jimmy Tarbuck—perhaps not a…