In May 1968 I had my first sexual experience. I was almost nine at the time and that afternoon had been practising French skipping in my bedroom with my best friend, Tabitha. When we had tired of leaping over the elastic that was strung tightly between two chairs, she told me about French kissing and – briefly and rather less enthusiastically – we practised that instead.

At around the same time my mother came home one day with a bag from Kids In Gear in Carnaby Street. Inside was a black jumbo-cord miniskirt, with a red leather belt almost as wide as the skirt, and a mustard skinny-rib polo neck. Never has an outfit given me more pleasure. Never have I felt quite so cool.