As the father of a 10 year old boy, I was musing this morning about what I got up to at that age and recalled, with something of a shock, that it was about this time that a young chap's thoughts turn to such things as guns, beer and pornography. Before I was 11, I'd acquired a .177 air pistol from a friend at school, who had stolen it from his brother; a beer habit from my friend Tony Camacho, whose parents ran a hotel where he could steal cans of Watney's Pale Ale from the storeroom; and two copies of Mayfair that a friend of my parents' had accidentally left behind when staying at our house whilst over on a business trip from the US. This load of contraband was stashed in a toolbox which I had acquired to keep the paints and Stanley knives and so on which I used as part of my Airfix model-making activities, and was normally safe against parental intrusion as it was a known quantity and not normally locked, unlike the desk draw in my bedroom where I kept my money, which my mother was constantly 'accidentally' opening, having no doubt surmised that my drawn complexion and tremor were the result of continual self-abuse over pictures of thickly bushed young ladies with green eyeshadow. All this came to an end when my brother was off sick from school with measles, got bored and decided to make an Airfix Stuka which someone had given him the previous Christmas but he'd never had the inclination to build. He went to get some glue from my toolbox and, unable to find any on the top layer, removed this and started rummaging in the layer beneath. He wasn't interested in beer or porn, but the airpistol caught his attention and he swiftly removed it. Unfortunately, as a 10 year old, I wasn't the paragon of firearms safety that I am today and I had left it loaded, ready and with the safety off. After he had stopped crying for long enough to explain to my mother how he had shot himself in the thigh, through his pyjamas, with an air pistol, a rummage search of my room was initiated which soon uncovered my proto-porn stash, several cans of beer, several more empties which I hadn't taken the opportunity to get rid of in time, and a couple of other bits which I had forgotten about, including a flick-knife I'd bought on a school day trip to Boulogne. When I arrived home from school I received, as you can imagine, the kind of reception which would nowadays put my mother in Holloway for five years. All of this led me to think: where could chickenpunk junior be hiding his contraband? Suggestions?