Coming down very firmly in favour of the BBC in the subtle yet insidious BBC / ITV children's television divide, I watched many, many episodes of Blue Peter and by default countless hours of instructions on how to build toys and trinkets with only a handful of household waste and the forgiving squint of a child's imagination. I never made any of these things myself, preferring to set my clumsy fingers to the easier task of turning book pages instead or perhaps unconsciously knowing that neither of my parents would truly appreciate gifts of picture frames made from tissue paper and macaroni. Nonetheless, the moment where the presenter of the day would instantly attach card to plastic by means of this sticky miracle tape, eschewing the globulous pot of fishy-smelling glue and a three day wait for it to dry never seemed anything less than truly exotic and aspirational. My parents, prefering Agatha Christie and the Channel 4 racing to anything crafty, did not run the kind of household where one might find such a roll of magic lying casually in a kitchen drawer and I never asked for any, realising I'd never quite be able to explain why I really wanted it.

I grew up and forgot about this strange yearning for years, my teenage mind more occupied with Axl Rose's bottom and whether I'd ever get a chance to catch chlamydia. But then in W H Smith one day, indulging stationery desires of a completely different kind, I found myself wandering aimlessly away from the exciting coloured inks and smooth, fragrant notepaper, the siren call of the Pritt Stick luring me into hitherto unexplored aisles. And suddenly there I was, confronted with rolls upon rolls of my childhood sweetheart. And oh, but absence truly does make the heart grow fonder. I forgot everything else as I scooped up five rolls and bore them tenderly off to the tills. So now, as Dorothy Parker would say, I have the silly gown, yet I have as little to do with it now as I would have done twenty years ago.

I have other things like it, too; things that I coveted as a child but had to wait until adulthood to possess. A pair of impossibly tall red glitter heels. A fat, expensive dictionary that lies unused while my Word spellchecker sniggers haughtily. A flat of my own in which I could eat custard creams for dinner and paint the ceilings green. Sunday nights spent without the lingering dread of homework still undone. Some people measure their progress in life by how many promotions they've had or how expensive their television is; I'm still excited that I can go to bed without brushing my teeth.