The childhood chunk of that phrase is deceptive as it assumes that since I've outgrown my Barney pyjamas and my pink fluffy bunny slippers, my tastes have matured like a fine slab of cheese and I'm now dipping my toes in subterranean depths of sophistication found only in arthouse critics and chronic intellectuals.
Heck no. I'm still several shades of simple minded and can still weane out an indecent amount entertainment from toddler cartoons and happy-meal toys.
But considering how my friends envisage my childhood involving barbie decapirations, elastic band catapults and a chronic stockpile of bruises, scratches and grazes, I always get arched eyebrows and snorts when I declare that my childhood favourite film isn't some mind-warping masochistic torture-porn flick but rather the sugar-coated South-America frump: 'Romancing The Stone' - involving flaky latinos, shrieking parka-wearing saga-scribing city frumps, bird collecting jungle hobos and a script that I have engrained in the deepest, darkest core of my brain.
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