I sit at my desk, tongue poking out my mouth – an eight-year-old in deep concentration. The smell of PVA glue wafts across a classroom strewn with sticky paper chains. December 1988 and the teachers have given us Christmas scenes to colour in. Mine’s a posh cocktail party – bit odd for kids, but maybe the teachers were high on PVA fumes?
There’s a buzzing in my tummy. Part excitement, part something I won’t have a name for, for many years. I’ve taken a heavy dollop of artistic licence and I’m drawing myself in with slicked back hair and a James Bond tuxedo. This is how I see myself, despite the gingham
