When you’ve had a difficult relationship with money, your bank balance – however healthy – will never not feel emotionally charged. Today, I can look at my statement and feel completely calm, but I’ll never forget the power those digits once had over me, changing my pride in my ‘perfect life’ to a feeling of absolute helplessness.

I was born in Sierra Leone and moved here with my mum when I was eight. Money was never spoken about in our house, but it hovered at the edges of our existence. “If anyone knocks at the door, tell them I don’t live here,” Mum told me sternly when I was 10. So when the bailiff did appear, I lied dutifully.

But it was confusing. On one hand, money was so tight that the council tax hadn’t been paid, but on the other, two days later we were throwing a barbecue for family and friends as if we didn’t have a care in the world? The life lesson, it seemed, was this: if there’s enough money for fun, the rest doesn’t matter.

My relationship with my mum broke down at 16, and I ended up in care and got £60 pocket money each week that was spent on clothes and make-up. Then, at 18, I went to university to study psychology and social work, when a small weekly allowance transformed into a £2,000 student loan magically landing in my account.