​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​I began serving actor Frank Windsor in 2003.

To millions of television viewers, Frank was one of those instantly recognisable faces of British television. Born in Walsall in 1928, he enjoyed an acting career spanning more than five decades, but was perhaps best remembered as Detective Sergeant John Watt in the groundbreaking BBC police drama Z-Cars, and later Softly, Softly. He would also appear in programmes including Casualty and Peak Practice.

Frank lived in London with his wife, Mary, a former dancer whom he had married in 1959.

For me, though, they simply became customers.

For much of the time it was Mary I would see when I called. As the years went by, however, I began seeing more of Frank himself. Unlike some customers who would come out to the van, I would take their fish into the house, and quite often I'd find myself sitting or standing chatting with Frank in his front room.

And that's where I first became aware of the box.

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Whenever it was time to pay me, Frank had his own little routine.

He would reach underneath the sofa and pull out an old black metal cash box.

It was a proper old-fashioned thing: heavy, divided into compartments inside and already showing the knocks, scratches and marks of years of use.

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That box was effectively Frank's go-to wallet.

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I saw him do it time and time again.

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I'd bring in the fish, we'd have our conversation and eventually Frank would reach beneath the sofa, retrieve the box, open it and take out the money to pay me.

At the time there was absolutely nothing remarkable about it.

It was simply what Frank did.

Over the years Frank also gave me one or two photographs of himself, which I still have today. One carries a personal handwritten message from him:

"Thanks for everything Jim."

They're lovely things to have and, of course, there's an obvious connection between those photographs and Frank Windsor the actor.

But strangely enough, it isn't the photographs that mean the most to me.

It's that old black box.

Frank died peacefully at his London home in September 2020 at the age of 92, with Mary by his side.

Afterwards, while speaking with his daughter Amanda, I found myself thinking about the box that had lived underneath the sofa for all those years.

So I asked her if I could have it.

To anybody else, I suppose it might have seemed an odd thing to ask for.

Here was a man who had enjoyed a distinguished acting career stretching back decades, had appeared in some of Britain's best-known television programmes and was recognised by millions of people.

And the thing his fishmonger wanted was an old cash box from underneath his sofa.

But Amanda kindly let me have it.

And I knew exactly why I wanted it.

I still have it today.

There's no inscription on it saying "Frank Windsor". There's no autograph, plaque or certificate of authenticity. It's scratched, battered and marked from years of use.

Put it in front of somebody who didn't know the story and they'd probably give it no more than a passing glance.

I doubt it has any significant monetary value whatsoever.

But I don't need a certificate to tell me where it came from.

I know where it lived.

I know whose hands opened it.

And I can still picture Frank sitting in his front room, reaching underneath that sofa and pulling it out to pay me for his fish, just as I'd watched him do so many times before.

Perhaps that's something I've come to understand while looking back over all these years on the fish round.

The things that become precious aren't necessarily the expensive things.

An Oscar is extraordinary. An autograph is wonderful. A photograph can preserve a moment forever.

But sometimes the most ordinary object can hold an entire memory.

To anybody else, it's just an old black metal box.

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To me, it's Frank's.

And that's why I'll always treasure it.

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