I hitch-hiked from Narbonne to Perpignan in the back of a fish-truck.
I sold dolls that wee in a supermarket in Bloubergstrand.
I was chased by a rhino.
I met a naval officer who was dancing in a fountain and I took him to my school dance.
I am good at croquet, average at bridge, poor at tennis.
I gatecrashed the first opening of parliament of South Africa’s new democracy.
I waitressed at a Foreign Office event without a work visa.
I’ve slept all night on a beach.
I wore a paper hat for work in the John Lewis staff canteen.
I know that angels smell of roses.
I’ve given birth three times, but only once in a hospital.
I spent a week in Rome in a villa on Appian Way.
I have shaken hands with a Prince and dined with international cricket stars.
I went to Oliver Tambo’s funeral.
The garden of my last home was the site of a Roman temple.
I used to ask boys out on dates.
On honeymoon, my husband and I had to call guards to chase away the elephants outside our hotel room.
After her death, my grandmother visited me in spirit.
I was trapped by floods in a Transkei village.
I write because there are stories in my head.
I write because words follow each other.
I used to be a crime reporter, but not a very brave one.
I have written a book about a crime reporter. She climbs walls, rides motorbikes and saves a child. She is the hero.
Inspired by Simonne Michelle’s beautiful post Dancing on a Greek Island