What do I remember about being 10 years old? I remember crossing the road to the corner shop and buying a Milkybar with some loose change I’d found under the sofa cushions. I remember spending a long time choosing what I wanted, and then I remember queuing by the till, flicking through the magazines displayed on the rack: blown-up photos of women in bikinis with red pen circles scrawled around their cellulite and stretch marks; an interview with a plastic surgeon about what treatments he would suggest to particular celebrities; a feature which, week by week, predicted the length to which Britney’s hair had grown back since paparazzi shots of her shaving it off in the midst of a breakdown had hit the press.

I remember paying for the Milkybar, slipping it into the waistband of my trousers, then crossing the road and knocking on the door to my house, which I’d forgotten to leave on the latch. I remember my dad opening the door, and I remember that as I stepped up into the house I could feel the Milkybar slipping from my waistband and moving down my leg – cool and scratchy – so that by the time my foot landed, the Milkybar was lying face up on the floor. I remember my dad and I both looking down at it, and I remember the feeling of shame that moved through me: complete, paralysing shame.