At 69, I sold my house to travel around the world despite my children’s protests — in Australia, a man invited me to his home for coffee, but when I walked into his living room, I froze.

And in 1974 I wrote that name one last time and put something unkind in.

He rang me at eleven o'clock at night his time to read me the pencil line down the phone, and he was not upset at all. He was delighted. He kept saying, "Sixty years, and it was on the back."

And then he said: "So it was you all along, love. Both ends of it."

And that is the whole thing, and I have stopped trying to make it into a tidier one.
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