I well recall the feeling of guilt when my younger self ever bought anything, ahem, interesting.

Sneaking into the corner shop to buy ‘Men Only’ as a teenager (a confusing-titled yet tasteful photographic journal – to be read by men, rather than only featuring men). Blushing, hands shaking, as I handed over my pocket money and stashed the magazine inside my coat.

Some years later, looking nervously around before darting into the Janus shop in Soho. What if someone sees me? They might think I was into naughty things! Help! (“Ten pounds, sir. Nice selection” “Thank you. Not that I’d be reading this myself. It’s for a friend.”)

Amusingly, similar feelings came to mind the other day, when I was buying… a leather belt. In a perfectly respectable department store. See, I’d forgotten to take one with me on a business trip and I needed one to hold up my jeans.

So there I was, in Marks & Spencer, handing over my selection and parting with the cash… all the time worrying about what the shop assistant must be thinking of me, and blushingly hoping that no-one would notice me making my illicit purchase. (Yes, as it happens, it was the thickest and widest they had on sale. Pure coincidence, I promise you).