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I used to have a lovely wallet with lots of different compartments where I kept photographs of my grandmother, grandfather and friends. It was stolen one night when I was out in Edinburgh, and I never got it back.

In a way, my father was lucky. He had a hunch that his vision of the National Gallery would interest other collectors and persuade them to come in with him, and that hunch proved to be right.

My father was the funniest guy I ever met. I'm not sure if I stole his stuff or if I inherited it.

I actually carry a little picture of a wolf in my wallet, rather like people carry a picture of their kids. The reason I do that is to remind myself why I'm doing this, to remind myself of the story.

My mother always carries around these postcard pictures of me.

My dad sent Frank Sinatra a dollar bill to autograph, and when it came back, signed, he had it framed: it was always up on the wall in whatever flat we were in.

I remember the time I was kidnapped and they sent a piece of my finger to my father. He said he wanted more proof.

One of my earliest memories is of my father carrying me in one arm with a picket sign in the other.