That first kiss, your premier pub pint (aged 13 in a pub in Oswestry), that initial but magnificent heady, nicotine-filled drag on something which you later gave up because you discovered was slowly killing you.

The first ever match at the Goldstone under floodlights.

All of it fades into insignificance when compared to a quarter of lemon bon bons and a bottle of Corona lemonade.

The journey to Berry's in Sussex Road, Haywards Heath, was one of (quite literally) sweet anticipation.

I'd glance at the regulars going in the long-demolished Star pub next door, unsure of what the lure was.

My delight was the shop one door down from the pub. Old Mr Berry (he wasn't that old, looking back on it) would reach for the heavy glass jar, always on the top shelf, and he would need three or four twists of the screw top to get it open.

Each twist brought with it a gentle swishing sound, screw top in perfect harmony with the grooves expertly carved into the top of the jar. British engineering.

And then the cascade of little lemon-flavoured chewy darlings, dropping into the polished bowl in a musical flourish, a quarter pound weight sitting quietly on the other side to see fair play.

Mr Berry, who mostly wore a suit and tie, would closely examine the contents of the silver bowl, meticulously adding or subtracting a bon bon with a tweezer.

He'd then adjust the bowl to something over 45 degrees and slide the whole delightful package into a waiting paper bag.

Each top corner of the bag would then be taken very precisely between thumb and forefinger and two quick twists later the package was complete.

And it wasn't just any lemon bon bons. It had to be Pollards.

So much sharper than the others. No hint of the bog standard toffee flavour which infiltrated other brands.

A Pollards lemon bon-bon was a lemon explosion of a confectionary, dusted with a yellow powder that sometimes threatened to take the roof off your mouth.

That was where the Corona lemonade came into it – raw and authentic (unlike its sugar pop rival R White's), I accepted nothing less to wash down my tangy treat.

I lost a few fillings in the course of my long and distinguished lemon bon bon career but, just as modern life killed off shops like Berry's, production methods reduced the sweets to bland imitations of their former selves.

People will tell you that you can now get sweets as they used to be.

You can't.

Every lemon bon bon I have ever tried since the age of 35 has been a sugary, toffee-tasting disaster.

Frother bars and Refresher chews, which once had more kick than a packet of Park Drive, went the same way.