It's often said that childhood memories are the clearest and sharpest we ever experience. This was certainly true in my case; my earliest recollections are a rich tapestry of image and emotion. In many respects, they laid the foundation for the person I would eventually become.

One memory in particular seems to have shaped my entire destiny.

It goes back a very long way, almost to the beginning. I doubt I was even five years old; all I can recall was a bright, golden summer, when each day followed the last in a never-ending limbo. A minute could last an hour, an hour could last a day, and a day frequently lasted forever. Time was a sweet, quiet afternoon drifting off into eternity.

Then something happened.

Something completely unexpected.

It started off with a mounting sense of excitement. We were going out for the evening, a trip downtown for dinner and a movie. The house bustled with activity as clothes were changed, shoes were shined and windows bolted down for the night. Decked out in our Sunday fineries, we piled into the car in a chattering mass of knees and elbows, a subtle mist of hair spray and aftershave tracking our every move. The dashboard glowed a soft, comforting yellow as we backed down the drive way, whooping and laughing and poking. Doors were locked, gears were shifted and the road swept by in a blur of street lamps.

This was a first time for me, a moment of surprise and revelation. I suppose I must've known all about restaurants and cinemas before that point, but they were things that belonged to the daytime world. Now everything had changed – the sudden flood of strobing neon practically overloaded my nervous system. Music blared from every corner, spectral colours flickered across the sidewalk. This was a fantasy land beyond anything I'd previously imagined.

Dinner flashed past with a rush of menus, waiters and neatly folded serviettes. There was no time for desert: the show started at eight and the box office was sure to be crowded if we arrived late. A small queue was just starting to form as Dad secured our tickets. Jostling our way through the lobby, we followed a uniformed usher into a darkened gallery, taking our seats just in time for the Coming Attractions.

This was one of the biggest events of my life up to that stage. We weren't just seeing a movie, we were seeing a scary movie – the kind I wasn't even allowed to watch at home. I also had some idea what it was about – my sisters had been talking all about it on the ride into town. It was set in The Olden Days, when men wore top hats and ladies wore long, bell-like dresses. There were no werewolves, vampires or demons, but there was a mad scientist who drank a potion and turned into a monster (or something). Like most kids, I loved a good fright every now and then, especially since spook-flicks were strictly off limits for me. This was shaping up to be the best night of my life.

Truth be told, it was … but not for reasons I was thinking.

The movie was far better than I'd expected. Dr Jekyll transformed into a suitably monstrous Hyde, ruthlessly terrorizing the gas-lit streets of London. Women shrieked in terror as the hideous creature descended on them; stalwart Bobbies plunged through the fog in swift pursuit. Torch-wielding mobs raged through dank urban catacombs, blood spattered across back-alley walls in a crimson shower. Needless to say, there was plenty of lurking and skulking about in cobweb-strewn passageways.

However, the best was yet to come.

Thirty minutes in, Detective Abberdine of Scotland Yard was chasing Mr. Hyde through the Whitechapel labyrinth. After several hair-raising encounters (and equally riveting escapes), the trail eventually led to a Soho den of iniquity known as The Judas Pit. Accompanied by his intrepid band of constables, Abberdine burst into the raucous music hall...

And here is where my story truly begins.

This was my very first introduction to The Cancan.

Up on the screen were eight beautiful young women, dancing with their skirts over their waists. Twirling swiftly before the camera, they whipped their petticoats from left to right, openly displaying their underwear to the audience. Black suspender stockings enhanced their slender, tapering legs, lending a sharp contrast to their glaringly white crinolines.

Shrieking with delight, the girls cantered before the footlights, turning cartwheels and handsprings to reveal their lavishly frilled panties. At one point, they spun round, flipping their dresses up at the back. Plump, round bottoms were presented to a roaring crowd, jiggling back and forth in time to the music.

I was utterly entranced by this spectacle. I sat staring up in open-mouthed astonishment. My heart raced like a trip hammer, a wave of liquid heat swept through my veins. I was literally on the edge of my seat, fingernails digging into the faux-leather arm rests. This was - without exception - the most thrilling second of my brief existence...and it altered my perceptions forever.

The image was permanently imprinted on my consciousness, preserved in deepening layers of awe, mystery and amazement. I went home that night with a thousand questions ringing through my head: who were those girls, what was the dance called? Why were they doing it, why would they flash their knickers to a room full of drunken, cheering strangers? Did they actually enjoy it? They certainly seemed to, no denying that.

We got home around ten PM, almost two hours past my regular bedtime. I should have been dead on my feet, but my mind was filled with visions of swirling petticoats. Climbing into my short cotton PJs, I replayed the scene over and over: the music, the dancing, the beautiful, smiling chorus girls. And the underwear, of course. Mostly the underwear. The panties.

They'd been deliberately showing off their panties. It was no accident, no momentary hint of satin, like when a girl goes ice-skating or country dancing. They'd been holding up their dresses on purpose, so that everyone could see their undies. On purpose. The implications left me speechless.

I fell in love with the cancan that night. It was the beginning of an affair which would span decades

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