There's a great Grahame Greene short story, The Innocent (1937), whose narrator visits his childhood town and becomes intoxicated by memories of first-love. He finds the worn out knot of a fence where he once posted a declaration and, to his surprise, the undelivered note still nestles inside. Only, there's no poem on the scrap of paper, or even awkward prose, just a brutally smutty anatomical drawing, an inarticulate outline of amorous intent.

Time does have this way of saccharine-sprinkling our memories; I wince at mawkish moments of self-expression in colourful old correspondence or get a shock when some photo proves my favourite top was a little too small... and maybe not such a great colour after all.

Something similar happened coming across these two pics from the mid-90s in box mis-labelled Record Deck. Edward says he'd swear his hair was more James Dean and less Jamie Oliver, while I'd all-but-forgotten I'd ever had my nose pierced!

Seriously good mirror frames though, eh?