There's a box of old photos of me next to my desk.A handful are sweet, but mostly I have a face only a mother could love: baleful, bejowled baby; beret-wearing, simpering tween; thunderously embarrassed teenager in terrible glasses.They are safely analogue, but would that easily mortified 14-year-old have liked her GCSE geography class to have had access to a picture of her seven-year-old self doing a headstand wearing only a pair of red hot pants?
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