I was a ghoulish child at times. Obsessed with Hammer Horror movies, my bedroom was filled with glow-in-the-dark models of Dracula and Frankenstein; my bookshelves creaked with tales of ghosts and monsters.

I was particularly fascinated with Egyptian mummies, thanks to Boris Karloff. Aged eight, my family went on a summer holiday to London to see my Cockney mum’s folks. I had only one demand: I’ll talk to all the aunties you want, just take me to the British Museum to see those dead pharaohs in bandages.

I got my wish. But it wouldn’t be summertime without some sadness. Among the museum artefacts was Gebelein Man - a naked mummified corpse, curled on his side, hands clasped over his face.

There was no magnificence to this poor little guy. To eight-year-old me, he looked forlorn and humiliated. People hurried past, barely acknowledging him. It felt wrong. I visit the British Museum at least once a year and always make sure to say hello to Gebelein Man. Today, idiots with selfie-sticks point at him and laugh. I often want to kick them right up the backside.

I mention this memory merely to point out that you can be both fascinated by the study of the dead, and full of pity – and even a little shame sometimes – for the souls we gawp at. I’m not even sure if me looking reverently at Gebelein Man is any better morally than a moron with an iPhone mugging for the camera with his mummified corpse as a prop.

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