When I was 13, I ordered materials from Charles Atlas: “I used to be a ninety pound weakling, but look at me now!”

In those days, adolescent information was gleaned from small ads in comics and magazines, furtively and expensively ordered, and delivered weeks later. Those were the days when libraries and bookshops were meaningful, and the postman eagerly awaited.

I can still remember some of his exercises, that I of course failed to persist with. All good stuff – essentially, using one’s own body as a resistance machine. He was also especially keen on hot and cold showers – cold to close the pores – which I shied away from after a brief flirtation.

The smell of catalogue ink is very distinct, part of the whole experience of expectation, research and choice. When the catalogue lands on the doormat and can be carried off to consume in solitude – just a whiff of substance abuse rolled into the bargain.

Then licking the envelope, tasting the tangy glue when placing the order and sealing the deal.

In those days, I was convinced my shoulders were too narrow and my torso too weak. I avoided tucked-in shirts, uncomfortable with what I saw in the mirror. Somehow I could see that hunks existed, but was acutely conscious that hunk I was not.

Only later, in my forties, really, did I get truly physical – training for marathon runs and enjoying the gradual build-up of strength.