Kath Phipps, a long-serving receptionist at Manchester United, his first club, remembers all the knickers that were sent to him (" It's not nice, is it, sending underwear to a boy? " ).
In the UK, my sister and I were at schools which felt straight out of the Malory Towers era – gym knickers, prep, lift-up desks, the odd nun floating around and blazers.
Two minutes later I was lying on the Burgundy Bedspread of Doom, sweat cooling on my skin, wondering whether it would be really bad if I reached down to get my knickers.