In 1972 my hormones were all over the place. My bedroom walls were a homage to, essentially, four bricklayers in drag. Brian Connolly was just a ball of confusion to any pre-pubescent second year oik waiting for his voice to break. The man who sang Block Buster! and who would burst out of our rented telly every Thursday night used to wear eye liner and lip gloss - and I never batted an eyelid. But I did manage to find room high up on one of my walls for one chick: by day she would masquerade as David Cassidy's sister in The Partridge family, but, by night, conjuring up images of Susan Dey sure beat counting sheep.