A big problem when you became a punk girl was that all your jeans were flared and something had to be done about it. Not ripped and safety pinned like the Daily Mirror punks – I really didn’t have the nerve. No, straightened and skinny – like an East Midlands Tom Verlaine, or so I thought. There was something ritualistic about the laying out of the legs, the pinning and machining. And when your mates saw how cool it looked, there was the possibility of running a service for anyone who wanted a hippy to punk conversion.