When my parents told me they were splitting up, I was 15 and furious. It was an abstract, all-consuming kind of anger, alien to the hitherto conscientious, happy kid I had been. With the upset turbocharged by adolescent angst, I resolved to behave as badly as I could: if they were going to tear my life apart, well, I’d muck in.

In hindsight, my rebellions were pretty gentle – probably testament to how safe and stable things remained, even if I felt adrift. Nonetheless, I bravely cycled through teen cliches, beginning by escalating my casual smoking to the compulsive level of someone who had been promised a reward for every dog-end. That’ll show ’em!

Alcohol, too, felt like sparkly mischief – I did my best to down some whenever the opportunity presented itself, staying out late and generally being as difficult to interact with as possible. But with my cosmopolitan parents barely batting an eyelid between them, I knew I needed to up the stakes – and as soon as it occurred to me, shoplifting seemed the perfect balm for my flailing little soul.

Breaking age restrictions (booze, fags) was one thing, but the actual law? How glamorous! And now I came to think of it, there were plenty of trinkets I coveted. Call them cosmic recompense for the turbulence I’d endured – I did. I don’t remember the first thing I stole, but I........

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