Iranians have an expression that, when translated, means: “An unexpected guest is a gift from God.” It goes a long way to explaining why I always found myself sharing my bedroom with countless strangers and long-lost relatives from my home country.

Our humble rented flat at 65a Madeley Road, Ealing, in west London, only had two bedrooms, but it was always jam-packed with people, some of whom had just popped in for a drink, others, sometimes whole families, who would be staying with us because my father had met their uncle’s sister-in-law’s second cousin, and just happened to mention that they should visit if they were ever in London.

My dad was like that. He was incredibly sociable and his invitation was always genuine; he would have been offended if it wasn't accepted.

We had to leave Tehran after my father, who had been a supporter of the 1979 revolution, had come to realise that the ayatollahs weren’t what they were meant to be. He wrote articles criticising key figures in the newly established Islamic Republic of Iran, which resulted in mobs chanting for his execution. He was incredibly lucky to get out of the country alive, but the death threats followed us to England and, not long after our arrival, an assassination plot was uncovered.

Even though I was only six or seven at the time, I was fully aware of the security issues surrounding us. Many times, I’d answer the phone to be warned that my father was going to die, and I remember one incident in the front garden, when two Iranian women approached me as I was playing with my tortoise. They asked me my name, and when I told them, they looked at each other and said: “Are you related to Hadi Khorsandi?” As soon as I said I was his daughter, I regretted it. I was convinced my actions would see my father killed.

While that fear was always at the back of my mind, there was so much going on at home, it made it easier to forget. My parents would hold raucous parties that would invariably start from nothing and go on until late in the night. I remember watching my father on these occasions, a tumbler of whisky in hand, holding court and creating gales of laughter. Everyone made such a fuss of him. I grew up aspiring to be the person who made everyone laugh. I’d do a turn in front of the guests, impersonating Margaret Thatcher, and Dad would look on proudly.

Once I’d done my bit, I’d go and join the 30 or so children — baby-sitters were unheard of in those days — and we’d run riot in the garden. It was a great space, and there were beautiful paved areas and paths that led to a huge, dilapidated Victorian greenhouse that seemed to house Ealing’s entire stray-cat population. The roof was covered in vines, and we’d climb on top, where we’d eat the pears, apples and sour blackberries from the garden. The other children couldn’t believe we were allowed to roam so freely.

As the oldest tenants, we felt we had the run of the entire property, and whenever a flat in the building became vacant, my brother Peyvand, who was a year older, and I would make it our mission to gain entry and turn it into our den. There was also a pantry under the stairs that we’d crawl up into. It was our secret place. We’d often go off into our own little world.

I suppose it was our way of shutting everything else out when it all got too much. We were each other’s sanctuary,and I’m forever grateful that we had that connection. Eventually, when Peyvand was about 14, he moved into the one-bedroom flat upstairs, which my father had rented as an office. He was rarely alone, though, as the flat took the strain of our overflow guests.

Unsurprisingly, there was no such thing as yours and mine in our house. It is a concept I have struggled to leave behind as a grown up. I couldn’t understand why my friends at university minded me bedding down in their room for the night or taking their things without asking. I was traumatised when I saw name stickers on food and drink in the communal kitchen.

Ironically, I married an only child, who has a real need for his own space. This creates huge problems, especially now we have a baby. I feel it’s the most natural thing for us all to sleep together. But then I’m used to top-and-tailing with 10 other people, so now it’s just the three of us, I feel I’ve got all the space in the world.

A Beginner’s Guide to Acting English by Shappi Khorsandi is published by Ebury Press on Thursday at £11.99

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