The awkward moment I wore a Superman costume to school.

For my eighth birthday my parents got me a Superman outfit.

One of those silky numbers that clung to whatever bulging muscles you had as a portly eight year old. Inspired, I decided that the coolest idea I’d ever had in all my eight years, was to secretly wear the costume under my school uniform and then wander around all knowing and heroic.

Of course I wasn’t ruling out the possibility that Catherine Owen might, by some twist of unimaginable fate, lose a marble up her nose again and need rescuing.

That morning I got dressed, twice. On went the costume probably over my pants (although I do question whether Clarke Kent put his Y-fronts over his costume or under), and then on went the school uniform.

You’d think the cape would cause bunching, but like I said, I was a portly eight year old, and besides which Matel – the makers of my costume – were a little stingy providing a full length of crimson for the cape, so it just about fitted. Off I went to school, looking a little more padded than normal, and went about my day.

Unbeknown to me, it was PE that day and we all got changed in class. As everyone began excitedly ripping off their uniforms, I stood there frozen. Nothing to do with Kryptonite, just the fear of looking like a total arse and being ridiculed for the rest of my school life.

This was the sort of thing that ruins your playground-cred as a child and the horrible little vultures in my school would have torn me and my tightly fitting Superman costume to pieces.

So I made like Superman and bolted for the toilets. Thank God Mrs.Hetherington let me leave otherwise I’d have probably involuntarily peed myself there and then. I legged it down the corridor, into the bathrooms and into a cubicle.

I do wonder today whether whilst ripping off my jumper, shirt and tie, the irony of the situation struck me at all. Does irony strike you when you’re eight? I can’t remember pausing to think “Blimey, my very own catastrophe”.

I’m also pretty sure the thought of Catherine Owen and a wedged marble didn’t enter my head either. Pretty much just pure panic. Panic at getting the uniform off, panic at getting the costume off, panic at getting the uniform back on again, and panic at getting back to my class in time.

By the time I did make it back, the class room was empty. Some Superman I’d make. No Catherine Owen. No wedged marble. Just a fat sweating eight year old, with a Superman costume stuffed up his jumper.

From that day on I hung up my crimson cape and silky costume and just watched Catherine Owen from afar, as she played kiss chase with my nemesis Peter Warren, who incidentally didn’t need a costume to win at bloody everything.