Yes, I believe I can fly... even after all these years

It was easy. All I had to do was run with my arms stretched out in front of me, raised towards a clear blue sky on a hot summer's day, and jump.

And that was it. That was all I had to do. Run and jump. And I'd be in the air.

Of course, it never quite worked – which was annoying, because I could feel, in the pit of my stomach, the sensation of being airborne, soaring above the ground, my home, my school, and wherever else I chose. (Although, obviously, I'd be back in time for tea. Especially on a Monday. We had sausages on a Monday.)

I loved Superman when I was little. And Star Wars. Superman and Star Wars. But Superman was better because Superman could fly. Luke Skywalker could only fall off Cloud City at the end of The Empire Strikes Back. Superman would have floated. (Your move, Darth, and it had better be a good one, son.)

Many, many moons later I'm still interested in Superman. I'm no longer a tubby little boy with blonde wavy hair, but I've got all of his comics. And I'm still tubby.

I have all of the Superman films as well. I never saw any of the Christopher Reeve epics in the cinema. I did have the chance to see Superman III one birthday, but I think I knew it was a turkey even then so plumped for the reissue of Raiders of The Lost Ark. Wise decision.

However, I had seen Superman The Movie on TV. Even though its glorious widescreen composition was ruined by being panned and scanned to fill the telly screen, it was fab. And it had that wonderful theme music which still raises the hairs on the back of my neck.

I've also got some modern Superman books – although they call them graphic novels these days, and they're very sophisticated. Years ago comics were simple. Bad people did something naughty, and Superman or Batman would bring them to justice.

I clearly remember finding a book of reprinted Batman stories from the 1950s or early 1960s in which Batman stopped a trio of aliens from robbing a jewellers. Even at that age I thought the whole idea of extraterrestrials coming billions of light years across the galaxy to knock off a branch of Ratners was, in a word, stupid. (F. Hinds, fair enough.)

But these were the days of the comics code, when superheroes were censored to stop them poisoning young minds with violence and ambiguity and fear.

As a rule, DC, publisher of Superman and Batman, was fairly simplistic. Rival stable Marvel, publisher of Spider-Man, was a bit more realistic by showing that having superpowers wasn't always a good thing.

But eventually DC got darker – well, Batman got darker. You never got any of that with Superman. He kept it sunny and simple – until he was rebooted in the mid-1980s.

Suddenly Superman had depth and ordinary problems to deal with. He was more human, and couldn't do everything. This was a Superman for our times and I loved him even more.

Years later I'm glad he's still there. Occasionally I'll settle down to watch dear old Christopher Reeve and Terence Stamp battering the hell out of each other, or pick up a comic and see Superman soaring into the clouds.

And I'll get that old feeling again. Right in the pit of my stomach.

Just for the briefest of moments.

I can fly.