The year was 1967. His name was Jimmy. He was short. A good seven inches shorter than me, even in my flats. I never knew what he saw in me - although his straight-on view of my chest may have played a part.

I know what I saw in him. A man with a car. Okay, a teenager with a car. Well, it wasn't much of a car, but it had wheels. And a booster seat on the driver's side. So Jimmy didn't look all that short behind the wheel. Which is why I insisted we see Bonnie and Clyde at the Drive-in, not the movie theatre. Plus there was less chance of anyone I knew spotting us in a dark drive-in and deciding Judy and Jimmy were a duo, like - well, Bonnie and Clyde. Make that Mutt and Jeff.

All went well until I had to take a mid-movie trip to the washroom. Coming back, I stumbled on the uneven ground, sprained my ankle and collapsed in a moaning heap. Concerned passers-by alerted employees in the concession booth. A loudspeaker announcement went out about my plight, and Jimmy soon arrived to claim me. I limped back to his car - Mutt leaning on her Jeff - while management thoughtfully turned on full field floodlights to help us make our way.