I was born to parents who grew up in wartime London and survived. My father’s first love was acting with the Renegades Theatre and reciting Shakespeare; my mother cut a fine figure with a gypsy knife and circus past.
My childhood was drawn amongst the wildscape of the Norfolk Broads, in an idyllic rural village, not unlike Narnia.
I learnt to swim the world’s oceans aboard a fine cruiser before being dumped into the hot empty city of Sydney.
Think Mad Men without the irony.
I morphed into a young woman as my friends formed a garage band and became INXS, their strange beats thumping on hot terrace tiles, under our feet.
I yearned for visitings from Mr Bowie, Roxy Music and Blondie – (all came true) and asked God if I could please have hair like Jerry Hall.
I observed the boardroom tips and media smiles of Margaux Hemingway and passed innocently through the underworld of Sydney’s poets and dead men.
And then back to London where I draped myself in fur and velvet, for Jewish fashionistas and purveyors of silk.
I burnt an Italian heart, in trade for an English lesson and a few puffs of something illicit.
Backward and forwards I went England, Europe, Australia, England, Europe, Australia.
I watched Siouxsie, the Sex Pistols and Adam Ant at the Marquee and walked to Marble Arch in the snow, in my sandals – I never listen.
Ultimately, a corporate gypsy for too many years with a shoebox of burning revelations and aesthetics under the bed.
Too many loves, too many lovers, too much of everything. Grief and sorrow.
Then a new bloom appeared on the stem of my life. A drumbeat called, maybe too late, maybe not?
There it was, cracked between London’s mysteries and the sodden green jewels of the English countryside – the power I had known all along – the power of story, the recognition of wisdom.
I nod to myself – that is what I am and always have been…a seeker, a storyteller and a woman on The Heroine’s Journey.