I'd like to punch my younger self in the face.
When I was a lot younger, and a little more foolish, I used to visit the local department store loos after school. I'd daub various designs on the pristine white walls, for some inexplicable reason I can't recall. Every few days the store's cleaners would remove my "artwork" and the cycle would repeat. Eventually the store put a coin-operated lock on the men's loo door. For some reason the ladies' loo door didn't get a similar lock on it.

I was never caught, though a friend at school rumbled me. He went to the store one weekend with his mother, and recognised my style from the designs I scrawled inside the desks at school. We had proper school desks, complete with hinged lids and inkwell holders. It was easy to work out if I'd sat at a desk: lift the lid and check for my Rembrandt-beating masterpieces.

Looking back, I cannot for the life of me work out what possessed me to be so inexcusably dim. All I achieved was the frustration of the store's cleaners and management, and the frustration of the store's customers who suddenly had to shell out five pence (this was back in the Eighties) for the privilege of spending one. My juvenile scribblings were hardly on a par with Banksy's.

If I had a time machine I'd go back in time and give my younger self a good hiding, for being so unbelievably fuckwitted.
( flake has nothing against your right leg, Thu 7 Oct 2010, 16:30, Reply)