In the early 1990s, my mother returned home from visiting family in the United States with a handful of posters and a red singlet with the number 23 on it. I was six. Over the next two dozen years, I grew out of that singlet and most of the posters were lost, but one remained – and was tackily laminated to save it from the ravages of time.

The image on the poster is of Michael Jordan, tongue out, dunking on a poor member of the Orlando Magic. Now in my early 30s, after more than 10 years with my partner, she has consigned MJ to the bin. Apparently a basketball poster – even a laminated and dare I say, collectible one – doesn't exactly go with the minimalistic feel the rest of our house was aiming for.