There are reports of bumper sales of turntables this Christmas. Young people are buying them and older people too, keen to revisit their old records. Which is understandable, though spare a thought for those of us whose old vinyl wouldn’t be up to it.

As a former music journalist, it’s sometimes presumed that I “must” have a great vinyl collection. That rather depends. I had a great time listening to my records, but are they in a great state now? Nope.

My surviving records are scratched, reeking of wine, sprinkled with fag ash and even a few boot prints. The inner sleeves have nearly all vanished, and I once found a copy of Kate Bush’s Hounds of Love on the kitchen floor, wrapped with drunken tenderness in a dirty tea towel.

Why did these atrocities occur? That would be because, at the grave risk of generalising, I’m female. So, back in the day, I actually played my records. I didn’t alphabetise them, store them in plastic sleeves or hold them at the sides, snapping peevishly: “No, like this!”

I definitely had no thoughts about their potential resale value, which is why I would probably get about 99p for the whole lot now or even have to pay someone in a biohazard suit to dispose of them safely.

Basically, my music was loved to bits and treated extremely badly. The upshot is that I’m pretty sure I wouldn’t be able to play these records any more. Oddly, I’d have to go full circle and buy them again. Do I regret my vinyl vandalism? Not one bit. If I did it the fun way, then I did it the right way.