It takes five minutes in Raymond Briggs’s company to realise who he reminds you of. As he moves at a fast 80-year-old shuffle around his partner Liz’s house near Plumpton Racecourse, his conversation is a kind of stream-of-grumble. There’s a draught from the door; his mouth is too dry to let him speak; there’s a script of the new Fungus the Bogeyman film he hasn’t had time to read. He grumbles about technology (“I hardly touch my iPad thing because it gets me in a temper. I need it to keep in touch through incoming mail, but that’s all I use it for”) and television shows (“I looked up Foyle’s War in the Radio Times and it was on for two hours, I mean two solid hours. I couldn’t sit through that, however much I like Michael Kitchen”) and British politics (“Nigel Farage is the only person I like because he’s slightly amusing. The others, these dark-haired blokes of about 40, I can hardly tell the difference between them”) and the trials of age (“When you get older everything takes so bloody long, getting the food, clearing up, washing up, getting the bedroom ready, having a bath…”).