We had all been told that we had to be careful around Nigel. He wasn't allowed to eat chocolate, or drink delicious fizzy pops. Earwax was OK - he'd shovel that stuff straight in. He didn't eat bogeys, though - he stored those in his pencil case.

One morning our teacher walked in ashen faced and quietly explained that Nigel would not be coming to school any more. He had moved a long way away.

Our bewildered but trauma-free response clearly wasn't enough for her, as she let out the cry "Nigel is DEAD!".

Unable to process this early brush with mortality as a tragedy, we'd simply echo her heartfelt outburst in the playground, to punctuate a wide range of antics. In some cases, this would continue well into our twenties.

Nigel is still dead.