Oh, I know -- you look into my innocent-looking eyes, (baby-brown and fringed by dark, curling lashes) and you doubt my word. You think I'm jesting. You smile to yourself as you imagine that I'm pulling your leg. But believe me, I'm not.

I AM a thief. It's TRUE!

But, no I'm not a thief in the sense of the word that you're thinking of. I've never broken into someone's home, I've never stolen someone's car, or taken someone's money without permission.

You're puzzled now, aren't you? So you begin to wonder about me, about my lifestyle. You look at my pristine, elegant outfit. You look at my exquisite jewellery, you know I have a wonderful job in banking, and so you assume I must be referring to some white-collar crime -- some sort of fraud or deception. But I'm afraid you'd be wrong there too.

Are you curious? Well then, let me tell you about my crime. I assure you that you won't be shocked. In fact you'll laugh at me, I know. You'll think I'm a little crazy. But let me tell you that today, it dawned on me that the guilty conscience that I've borne for so many years was totally justified.

The crime was committed over forty years ago. I was a cheeky six-year-old little girl that loved wearing pink and blue, with pretty lace and flowers. I was an only child, no siblings, and I believed that the entire world revolved around me. I was bright but bored, so had all sorts of hobbies to keep me busy. I liked making things -- everything from doll's dresses to my own play-jewellery. I drew and designed. I was going to be a fashion designer when I grew up. I collected things -- stamps, coins, soft toys, dolls in national costume, ribbons and badges.

But my favourite collection was my bead collection. It was very precious to me. In little bottles and boxes, some wrapped in soft tissue, others in cotton wool, I had beads of every colour -- red, green, orange and blue. I had hundreds of some of my beads, but others were lone members of my little collection. There were beads of different shapes -- round, oval, conical. They were made of all sorts of material, plastic, metal, papier mache and glass. I had beads that were so tiny that you couldn't thread normal thread through them. Other beads were as big as marbles. Some of the beads were beautiful, but others were so ordinary that you -- the non-bead lover -- wouldn't have even noticed them. Yet they were all equally important, equally precious to me.

One fine, sunny day I was playing with my friend at her house. We were busy running indoors and out, jumping about and skipping with ropes. Dressed in bright colours we danced around the garden like humming birds or butterflies -- pausing every now and again to look at some pretty flower, or lean over to take in its beautiful fragrance. My friend was wearing a new necklace, yet it was the pretty white ribbons with flecks of silver which tied back her hair that made me look at her enviously. As she leant over reach out for some blackberries, her ribbon got tangled in a twig. She struggled to free herself but somehow, in doing so she snapped the string of her necklace. All of a sudden the beads trickled down onto the ground.

I helped her to collect them all together. And as I did so it suddenly occurred to me how pretty the beads were. All the time that they had been part of a necklace I had barely noticed them, but now that I held the individual beads in my little fingers, I saw them in an entirely new light. Each bead, made of metal, was beautifully crafted. Each was aqua blue-green, and caught the light with a shimmering silvery-gold hue when held up to the sky. Spots of red enamel, like tiny flowers, added a little bit of texture to the bead's surface, and finally, zigged-zagged over each bead was a thin, raised line of gold enamel.

While I gazed lovingly at each and every bead that I found, my friend just bundled them together into her skirt and took them indoors. I followed her and saw that she carelessly dropped them into her drawer -- to be lost among scraps of paper and fabric, dried out pens, broken crayons, and damaged dolls arms and legs. She didn't give the beads a second glance.

But for the rest of that afternoon my own eyes didn't wander from the drawer. I'd been tantalised, and now temptation was taking control of me. I wanted to see those beads again, and was desperate for an opportunity to open that drawer. So, when my friend called me from the other room and asked me to bring some crayons out from her drawer, I was overjoyed. I opened the drawer and immediately searched for the beads that had become scattered among the topsy-turvy contents. I only found one -- but it was enough to satisfy my hungry eyes. I handled it tenderly between my finger and thumb. I felt the exactly the same way that a jeweller does when he handles a pure, clear, pear-shaped cut diamond. And then, on impulse, just as my friend called me again, I slipped the bead into my lace-trimmed pocket.

Like a true criminal, I justified my crime. The bead was unloved, uncared for. My friend had hundreds of others, and would replace this bead easily, without a moment's hesitation. I knew, absolutely, that what I was doing was wrong, but in that moment my need to possess the bead was greater than my friend's. I felt I deserved the bead; I'd been given the opportunity to take it, and so surely it was meant to be mine?

And so that afternoon the bead entered my collection. I wrapped it in a piece of pink tissue paper that I had found a few days earlier. Every now and again I looked at it adoringly. It has to be said that these were furtive looks, tinged with immense guilt. For years I never showed the bead to anyone else, lest they realized it was stolen and I was punished in some way.

So you see, I told you I was a thief. You doubted me. Yet I see you now -- you laugh at me for feeling guilty over something so trivial done when so young. But, despite the crime being small, it was still a crime, and I'd committed it in full awareness that I was doing wrong. What I had done was every bit as bad as if I had stolen a cut diamond.

Years passed and, although my guilt didn't decrease when I consciously remembered what I had done, I no longer worried about the dastardly deed or felt apprehensive about being caught. Who'd remember a tiny little bead, I reasoned?

My 21st birthday came, and my parent's bought me a beautiful gold charm bracelet as a gift. Little charms -- gold keys, cats, figures, jewels and beads dangled down from the chain. When one charm fell off one day, it seemed natural for me (with my well-honed jewel-making skills) to replace the charm with my own little stolen piece of treasure. The yellow gold set off the aqua bead, and the bead increased the charm of the bracelet; together they became one of my most precious possessions.

Even more years passed by, and we come to the present day. This morning I went out shopping wearing my charm bracelet. Normally I wouldn't wear real gold to go to the shops -- but the bracelet went so well with my outfit and earrings, how could I not select it?

The weather was fine, and the market busy. I browsed from stall to stall, looking at the items laid out in display. I bought many items -- pointing at this and that with my bejewelled hand.

I turned a corner and was surprised to find myself in a quiet area. All of a sudden it was as if I didn't exist -- people seemed to be looking in every single direction other than mine….except for one person -- a thin young man in a white T-shirt and blue jeans. He looked straight into my eyes with his big, heavily lashed eyes -- not unlike my own brown eyes. But there was something different. There was a glint of silver in them......and there was also a glint of silver in his pocket. And then I realised it wasn't a glint of silver that I could see in his eyes, but a glint of menace; and the silver in his pocket was nothing other than the cold steel of a knife. He reached out and grabbed at my bracelet. I was so stunned I couldn't do or say anything. He gave the bracelet a hard tug and the bracelet's fastening came undone, tearing at my skin as it did so. And with that swift movement he ran away, vanishing from view by the time that I had regained my composure. I looked down at my hand, small droplets of blood dripping from the wound that he'd left. Although not a large wound, the skin had torn away leaving a nasty, jagged edge. And as I looked at the gash it struck me that I would be left with a permanent scar to remind me of what had just taken place.

People were turning to look at me now -- to gasp, and some, grasping the situation at a glance, shouting out 'stop, thief'. People that I didn't know gathered around me to offer help and sympathy, and to ask what had happened. I slowly looked up at them with my (not-so) innocent eyes, wanly smiled, and whispered....'Divine Justice'.

And with that comment I breathed a sigh of relief for finally, after all these years of guilt, I had been punished for my crime.

Julie Reza is a doctor in the UK.