I was asked to write my memoirs. I went way past the deadline, so I cheated. I got some of my students and (can I write this without giggling?) fans (nope!) to write it for me. What was strange was not so much how they saw me, but how often their reportage was at odds with my own memories. It got me wondering about all those differing realities – are they really all me? And if so, are they me at the same time, or do I just slip in and out of each one? Am I me now?

Buggered if I know. I like me, though. Splendid girls, all of them.