Growing older is so strange.
It’s not as if you lose all the previous versions of yourself – you just become more crowded as you go along.
The 4-year-old who thought that warm scones with jam and cream were perfect heaven still waits vigilantly on the eve of every birthday wondering what presents tomorrow’ll bring.
The 9-year-old in me still walks down the corridors of my mind in the wrong school uniform, shoulders hunched over as she tries to make herself invisible.
The 12-year-old in me is still in there, feeling that getting undressed in front of strangers will actually kill her.
The 14-year-old debater in still on her mental soapbox haranguing the crowd, and the 15-year-old is still sneaking out for a smoke.
The 16-year-old in me is noticing the moodily-beautiful student on the seat across from her on the train, and thinking “if this was another time, we’d both be about to get ourselves into some trouble”.
The 40-year-old in me is still astonished when anything of hers gets published.
The 46-year-old in me is still delighted to meet anyone who knows who Boo Radley is.
At 50 I’m like my own village, my own cocktail party – my own war.