Once, on a school trip to north Wales, the kids in my class were passing round the bus-drivers' copy of The Sun. Of course we all new what page three was and at the age of ten our interest in nudity was at it's prepubescent peak, so I was as keen as the other boys to get a look at some real boobs. Then this artefact from the world of the greasy spoon cafe (we were a middle class school and our parents would have read the broadsheets or, at worst, the Daily Express, in fact my own parents were among those for whom "The Independent" was eventually birthed ) was finally passed back to me by my giggling peers so I could join in the risqué hilarity of the moment. But opening to the famed page my feelings were anything but hilarious. Communing like this with my ten-year old self is hard. There are thirty, experience packed, years between us. I have changed, developed my ideas and seen many more half-naked women but he is, unquestionably, still with me and for that i am gla...