I know this might look like a grubby old fax machine – and it is – but… it’s not just any grubby old fax machine, it’s the Sarah Fax Machine. Actually, it’s the second Sarah Fax Machine, as the first one got stolen, but… let’s not get distracted. Without this, there would be no Aberdeen and no East River Pipe and no records on sale in the Philippines: because this, before the internet came along and ruined everything, is how we used to communicate with people in far-off lands; otherwise, we’d have been waiting two weeks for an airmail letter to arrive or running up phone bills like Kate Bush runs up hills. It also came in handy when we needed to tell Jo Whiley to stop playing the first Oasis single* and also, a few years later – once everyone had replaced their fax machines with email – when Ryanair left me stranded in Vigo for 48 hours, as Ryanair only used to accept complaints sent by fax.** Anyway, my point is, for a while, this BT CF-50 was just as important a part of our lives as John Peel or The Orchids or top-notch Bolivian cocaine parcel tape, and it’s now on a tip in Thamesmead. Just behind Belmarsh Prison. I really must wash the kitchen floor.

* You people don’t know what a lucky escape you had. Please feel free to thank us.
** I know, it’s almost like they were trying to discourage people from complaining – they replied to each fax by email.