In one corner of a shelf in my room is an album of uniformly bad photographs. Some are out of focus, some are jerky and some are blurred to an extent that even the photographer would be hard put to recognise the subject. But I like leafing through the album still and can’t conceal a smile at the blurry image of my father trying to balance a glass of beer, while trying to fly a kite, my mother breaking into one of her characteristic guffaws, paying scant attention to the guide trying to describe 6th century historic relics.