I have a problem. I want to write my memoirs but I am such a strange character that if you put me in a book, I’d be overdrawn.
Thing is, y’ see, that I do things that “normal” people don’t. Ask a usual Joe if he wants to go up in a helicopter and “have a got at driving” and you’ll get “NO thanks!” I was in the fortunate position of being offered various aircraft to drive for fun and having merely to say yes or no. That, in itself, is unusual.
It is fortunate that I don’t like writing in the first person. I find it easier pretending I’m writing about a pretend “third person”. I have that lady in Nanny Ab, my alter-ego. She has developed since I wrote an autobiographical novel where I wanted to be “not me”. She has now become my witch-mentor and 350-yr old spirit guide.
All my life I have been in the wonderful position of being in the right place at the right time to agree to do fun things.
However, to write memoirs, I need a reliable memory (in short supply at the moment). It’s not as bad as it could be. I can still trace the railway map across my body and name each station of the operation, as I had to recently when Dr. Incredible seemed unable to tell a colon ectomy scar from a hysterectomy. Clue – one is digestion the other is reproductive.
We joke that more of me is missing than is left. To be honest, I don’t think about it!