Cast your mind back to 1993, which made me all of 7 years old – cute, innocent and inquisitive, as is the norm. I was quite the hoarder back then and tended to mill about the playground of my school after hours searching for discarded treasures (read: unhygienic trash). The schoolyard was a bit of a goldmine as far as loot went. “A broken retainer? Gimmie!”

The weather that day wasn’t great for prospecting but I was determined as it had been a slow month and… “Do my eyes deceive me?” A brown paper bag was nestled in the overgrown grass like an Easter egg. Upon inspection it was found to contain a magazine. “What a find!” I thought, assuming I was now the proud owner of a Cosmo magazine or one of those other pieces of trash that were considered too mature for me at the time. “Perhaps I could learn about kissing!” I thought naively.

I tore away the dewy paper bag with as much enthusiasm as if I were opening a present on Christmas morning.

“Huh?” I thought as it too-slowly dawned on me that this was no Cosmo magazine. Instead of the cover bearing a fresh-faced beauty I was confronted with a spread-eagled, 40-something heathen who desperately needed to dye her roots. I probably wouldn’t be learning much about kissing but it seemed like this lass could show me a thing or two about shoving the end of a wrench in my pussy should the occasion ever call for it.

I’m not sure how long I stood there stunned with big round eyes almost popping out of my equally round head.

Despite my initial shock my new reading material still made its way into the Ninja Turtles backpack where it would be safe from prying eyes.

Once I was back on home turf I sought refuge in my tree house – the epicenter of found treasures. There nestled between a creepy amount of limbless dolls would sit my new magazine in all its R-rated glory.

Little did my parents know that when little Evie was playing in the tree house and reading to said creepy dolls they were all getting a lesson on double penetration in the chapter Stairway To Heaven.

The magazine stayed in my possession for a year or two, being thumbed through sporadically until one fateful day when my sister blabbed to our grandma – an Irish Catholic – who demanded it be thrown out. The jury’s still out on whether ‘throwing it out’ actually meant keeping it for her own collection.