In Muriel Spark’s The Prime of Miss Jean Brodie, the titular character says, “Give me a girl at an impressionable age and she is mine for life.” It could have been the Spice Girls’ mission statement. I was nine when I discovered the group, and a boy (though the verdict at school was very much out). I’ve been devoted ever since. They were five miniskirted Miss Jean Brodies, and they educated me in how to be a fan. Before Wannabe, my idols were my mum and Princess Diana, by virtue of owning a tiara. Music belonged to the world of grownups and was of little interest compared with dressing my Barbies and eating Skittles, until I happened upon the Spice Girls’ calamitous debut video and became instantly obsessed. Here were five adults who behaved like children – hanging off each other, sticking their tongues out and dissolving into giggles any time an interviewer tried to corral them into answering a question. They were loud, boisterous and irreverent – everything I was told not to be – and did it all while looking like ambassadors from a better, brighter universe where everyone wore giant shoes. I had little awareness of how a fan should behave, and my activities were initially restricted to drawing endless portraits of the group, and decorating myself with felt-tip replicas of their tattoos. (By the time I was 13, this escalated to sneaking out and actually getting Scary’s stomach tattoo, which migrated across my torso during a growth spurt.) I didn’t own a stereo, and it didn’t occur to me to actually buy the Wannabe single. This naivety was short-lived, and soon I had the album, an unofficial T-shirt and as many trading photo cards as my meagre pocket money would allow. The Spice Girls taught me how to be a consumer – that was their first legacy. Plenty of people took umbrage at their rampant capitalism, but I still get an inordinate amount of joy from hoarding pop merch. During the first lockdown, I redecorated my bedroom in official Spice Girls wallpaper. I have no regrets.