Sometime in the mid 90's, at the age of eleven, I was in Paris on a school trip. Excited as ever to be somewhere new and interesting I wandered over to a bunch of stalls. Now, I can not remember for the life of me where it was, but, what caught my eye was a long stall selling black and white photographs. These were not postcards, but real pictures printed on photographic glossy paper.

I couldn't believe my eyes, all these beautiful women in bikinis and swimming costumes on beaches, wet hair, sand stuck to their skin, there was nothing like this in England. Eyes peeled back I was immediately obsessed, millions of thoughts and questions started rushing through my frenzied brain: Who were these women? Who took these photographs? Amongst all this, what struck me most was that every photograph was printed in black and white, with only the odd colour scattered here and there.

Previous excursions before arriving in Paris consisted of seeing souvenir shops with cliche’ pictures of cats, lavender fields, the costumed Milletesque peasant and various niceties that delivered an eye rolling boredom of infinite tedium. Of course, the usual teachers, together with my right thinking coevals, would pour over them and whale out loud about how dreamlike they were, which inevitably inspired me with the opposite effect.

Just like all the other children, I had been given pocket money which was allocated to the teachers and parental custodians, meant for sweets and silly nonsense. Of course you had to say what you were buying, my answer: a gift for my parents and family members. Of course all done with a forced smile, a justifiable white lie, what they didn't know couldn't harm them was my train of thought.

Francs in hand I ran back smiling uncontrollably to the stall with my sole purpose of selecting the very best photographs that I could get my hands on. I flicked through the glossy pages covered in a thin film of protective plastic leaving my grubby fingerprints on the tops and corners. Little did I know this was my first experience at editing photographs, something that I do regularly to this very day.

I indicated to the vendor that I wanted to purchase five photographs on offer which was all the money I had. From my recollection I remember picking all the supermodels of the era without even knowing it! The vendor, slightly bemused, took my selection, tucked them into a brown envelope as if it was some sort of dodgy deal and thus taking my tattered folded francs, handed over the material with a smile and mischievous wink. I walked off proud, chest held high and a fresh bounce in my step at the thought of a new beginning. I was finally following my obsessions.

Unfortunately my little collection come to an abrupt end. After returning home from school one afternoon those five prints which I had pinned to my bedroom wall the previous evening had been ripped down and thrown away. My mother must have thought that I was some arrogant little upstart on a highly dubious career path, one that could have possibly resulted in me pursuing the most lofty dream of all, becoming England's Hugh Hefner. But it didn’t quite pan out like that.