At school I fancied the head boy. Harbouring a crush on him was a team sport: half my class shared the infatuation. "I really fancy you," I told him one day after lunch, all heart in mouth, hair in a ponytail and skin decorated not with make-up but with acne. "That's so nice of you," he said, and then after a pause added, "We don't even know each other." Despite his polite put-down, it felt good to be a spokesman for my . . .

Therapists say the unconscious is the mind's "cupboard under the stairs" where our traumas, embarrassments and most private memories are stowed. I once had an actual cupboard under the stairs rammed to the door with, among other things, three broken shower heads that I felt sure I'd need again one day. "What's in that cupboard?" my boyfriend wanted to know. "Nothing," I said, fearing exposure. I felt as if the cupboard . . .